The Wandering Poet
by wynnie the pooh
Summary: Love is not a common factor between the people in Blaine's life.
1. The Widow and The Watcher

**The Widow and the Watcher**

_I.  
__Father, I remember your eyes upon my face  
__and the way I was acutely aware  
__how little I was to you.  
__I'm sorry it must be this way,  
__but you have left me no choice.  
__I cannot forgive you now._

He sits the pen down and closes the book and tries not to think too much. He likes this pen, with its fountain nib and the way its lines form brilliant dark trails of ink across his page. And he likes the notebook, a handmade leather-bound volume, embossed with the notes of a song long lost or never brought to conception. He'd tried playing it on his violin once, but the notes were too closely packed, too complicated to make any sense of. He wonders if the artist even knew what they meant.

In the kitchen, his mother is preparing a casserole, slaving over the hot stove like she rarely does nowadays. His brother is at the kitchen counter, coat thrown over his chair. It is the only indication of his sudden arrival, and that was around the time that Blaine left for the room which he now calls his own, picking up his pen and scrawling the world that swirled about his head onto the paper. He doesn't want to wonder what Cooper is doing here, why he found it suddenly necessary to talk to their mother, to share with her in hushed voices. He doesn't talk to Blaine much. He hasn't in a long time. Blaine wonders, momentarily, if he'll ever find out what's on Cooper's mind tonight, if their mother will tell him, or keep the whispered secrets to herself.

Their voices grow louder, echo slightly around the small hotel apartment, and Blaine moves across to his bed, burying his head under the pillow. It feels immature, even to his seventeen year old self, but he can't help it, to want to block out the world.

He only wishes he could block out his own spiralling thoughts the same way.

* * *

Blaine Anderson was fifteen years old when his father died, of acute heart disease. It was quick and painless, like ripping off a band-aid that had grown old and brown with age, and at the funeral, he didn't cry. He had nothing to cry about.

His father had never been good to him, never treated him how he should have. There was always too much to be done, houses to be sold, businessmen to meet with, and Blaine was pushed to the sidelines. Even their Sunday hours in front of the TV, where his father would pull his ten year old son onto his lap and point out all the best plays on the football, faded from memory as soon as Blaine became aware that he was gay.

And then it became worse. The extended silences, the sideways glance during dinner as if to ask _why are you here, eating our food? _And slowly Blaine stopped expecting things to change. He stopped expecting his father to love him.

At the funeral, he dropped his rose onto the top of the coffin, already turning away. He slipped his hands into his pockets, turned his back on his father like he'd always turned his back on Blaine, and returned to the car, head held high.

He didn't like to say that he was glad. He wasn't. But he couldn't deny that it released that little part in him that had become wound and twisted and malignant within his gut. It made him feel suddenly free again, like the world wasn't as horrible as perhaps he'd once thought it was.

Because his mother wasn't so bad.

* * *

_II.  
__Mother, dearest,  
__I told you not to say those things  
__you said to him,  
__made him think you were enough for him  
__without me._

He grabs his toothbrush from his toiletry bag beside his bed, dashes down the corridor and into the bathroom, avoiding the kitchen at all costs. He doesn't want to look at Cooper, see his knowing smirk and feel that it is meant for him. So he stares at the mirror, grabs a towel from the rack and methodically clears his hair of the gel and gunk he'd pushed into it at the start of the day. Then he brushes his teeth, rinses his face, and returns the same dash down the corridor.

Sometimes it's a different corridor, but he makes the same dash every day.

This room is cold to him, different than it should be, than the last one, and he pulls back the carefully pressed linens, trying not to worry about the creases he might be putting into it. This bed isn't home, not to Blaine.

His pajamas are on the back of his desk chair, right where he left them that morning, and he tugs them on, humming under his breath. He can hear raised voices in the kitchen, still too muffled to quite make out, but loud enough that he knows someone is getting angry, and then a sudden, 'It's not your brother's fault!' and he's learnt to recognise those words better than his own name. He climbs between the pressed linens, presses one ear into the mattress and covers the other with the pillow.

He hopes tonight Cooper will leave before his mother is in tears, so he doesn't have to feel guilty for not going out and comforting her, making her feel as if this isn't all her fault.

Because if it's not Blaine's, then whose is it?

* * *

His mother took his father's death better than anyone expected. She, from the big family home in the Philippines, he the only son of a Cold War veteran; she had adopted his life completely when they married. Everyone had expected that after his death, she would return to her childhood home, take the boys with her, and make a new start for herself, but instead, she took over the family business completely, buying property, building houses and selling them at top market pricing. Her training as an architect which had previously only aided the enterprise, now held it up by cold and tired feet, yet she did not rest. Where she used to stay at home, looking after the boys and designing properties on her laptop at the kitchen table, she now packed up the house, put their things into storage except for the necessities and took them on the road, living out of hotel apartments and traversing the country as property and clients dictated.

Blaine hadn't felt at home since.

She was a strong woman, Blaine's mother.

* * *

The morning dawns early for Blaine, his eyes blinking open as light filters through the gaps in the curtain he forgot to ensure was shut last night. He can hear his mother in the kitchen, cleaning up dishes and cooking a pot of oatmeal on the stove. There's no other voices, no muted discussion, so Cooper must have gone home late last night.

Blaine slides out of bed, finds clothes to wear and doesn't care that they may smell bad and desperately need a wash. He pulls them on blindly and slips out into the corridor, into the kitchen where his mother is scooping breakfast into bowls.

'You're up early, honey,' she says with a brief echo of a smile. He doesn't correct her, tell with a joking remark _but you're earlier. _He just sits at the counter on the same stool that Cooper occupied last night, and lets her hand him a bowl. 'You didn't eat last night,' she tells him, and it is most definitely not a question.

'I wasn't hungry.'

'And you were asleep when I came in to check on you. What teenage boy goes to bed at eight?' He doesn't tell her that he was faking it, purposefully loosening his grip on the pillow as he heard her open the door, evening his breaths until she went away.

'Boys that have a lot of work to do the next day?' he returns.

'Just don't do it again, Blaine,' she says evenly and sits down next to him, scooping up a spoonful of oatmeal to swallow down quickly before she has to finish getting ready and head off to another long day of work, before returning home, frustrated and angry and wishing the world wasn't as sexist and cruel to her as she should know it is.

Blaine swallows his own breakfast reluctantly, steps to the other side of the counter to wash his bowl, and places it in the drying rack for the cleaners to deal with.

'Is it a packing day?' he asks her with a sideways glance, and when she shakes her head, he pretends not to be relieved.

* * *

_III.  
__You are the widow,  
__the strongest of the strong  
__yet you cannot survive your own home  
__now that you are without him.  
__You cannot look at me  
__and consider me a son,  
__and I cannot look at you._

Blaine's schooling is more than a little off-key. Since they started the whole _moving around thing, _he's considered himself officially homeschooled. He's technically part of the Ohio school district, where the family home was before his father died, but his mother long ago filed the relevant forms for homeschooling. On his sixteenth birthday, shortly after the funeral, she handed him his textbook, pointed out a chapter, and motioned for him to read and complete the questions.

Since then, his schooldays have been oddly organised, and mostly self-ran. In the morning, after his mother leaves, he reads through the requirements for the day, the chapters, and then answers the questions. He's usually done by eleven.

The rest of the morning is spent sending his washing down to the cleaning floor of the current hotel, reading his novel of the day, or making something complex for lunch.

The afternoon is spent perhaps getting ahead on his schoolwork - although what's the point when there's hardly any work in the first place - and then playing around with his guitar or violin, and maybe writing poetry.

Actually, he thinks, he always writes poetry.

His days run like clockwork, and sometimes he wonders if he should be out meeting people, but his mother always told him he wasn't old enough to walk the streets by himself, and now that he is, he isn't exactly sure what he'd do.

He grips his violin in his hands, plucks out a simple rhythm, and then puts bow to string, plays out a tune of melancholy and woe. All his tunes seem to be of melancholy and woe nowadays.

And slowly the words start flowing through him, making twisted sounds of verb and noun and melding with the sound of the violin. This is always how the poetry starts, in the music, and then just as quickly his hands are stilling and he moves to his desk, draws out the leather bound volume and writes down the words as quickly as they come.

He always writes poetry in the afternoons.

* * *

_IV.  
__I am not all right.  
__Perhaps I hide it better than my brother  
__and for that you do not comfort me.  
__Yet since you chose him over me,  
__the harsh man over your youngest son,  
__I have not been alright._

He stands at the kitchen sink, rinsing his plate with vacant eyes. This hotel apartment has its window just here, looking out over the city street, and maybe New York isn't as bad as he'd made it out to be for himself. There's people moving busily, happily, and he imagines himself like one of them, another piece of the puzzle, and maybe he could be normal. He could ride his bike to school, grab a bagel from a street stall for breakfast and say hi to his friends as he slides into the school grounds.

He hasn't had friends in a long time.

He places his plate in the drying rack, turns away from the window. There's nothing he can do about it now, he thinks. He's made this life for himself, let his father isolate him, and let his mother take him away from everything he actually loved. It doesn't matter now anyway.

But some part of him, the part that plays violin and writes poetry filled with agonising metaphors and imagery, tells him he should go out. He should make a life for himself. His mother keeps mentioning getting his diploma early, filling out college applications. She doesn't say _getting his life back. _She doesn't have to. He tells her maybe, if he can get round to it, if he can pass his SATs, but she knows he can, and he knows he can, and maybe he just doesn't want to anymore.

He won't tell her that he's scared. He won't tell her that he's forgotten what the real world is like, what makes people tick when they don't live a life of seclusion in a hotel apartment being homeschooled while their mother runs her own business and their brother goes about life as if nothing ever changed and nothing ever will.

So he takes the forms she hands him, and when she's at work, tips them down the disposal, sheet by sheet.

* * *

_V.  
__How do I show you the many ways in which I'm scared,  
__sitting in your little dream of white-washed destiny  
__and trying not to cry myself to sleep?  
__Perhaps I will never be able to face the day._


	2. Through Someone Else's Eyes

**Through Someone Else's Eyes**

_I.  
__I went out for the groceries and I came back  
__with a heavy heart,  
__telling songs of long lost loving  
__to my faded old guitar.  
__And you don't hear me pining  
__for the things I've never known,  
__but your eyes are like stars and planets  
__and they're calling me home._

The groceries are always delivered on a Tuesday morning. His mother - or most often than not, Blaine himself - places the order of a Monday, and then Tuesday morning, the food and supplies are delivered to the apartment by the local grocery store. Their store in New York - no matter which hotel they're staying at this trip - is always the little privately owned convenience store just off Broadway, and the delivery guy is a tall lanky guy named Aaron with a flop of brown hair and a backwards cap who always hands Blaine the groceries with a smile.

But this morning is Tuesday and Aaron isn't knocking on the door, and Blaine _knows _he ordered the groceries yesterday. It takes him a minute to find the number, buried beneath yesterday's paper, and then he's dialling.

'Hello?' the owner of the grocer asks, obviously rushed off his feet by the slight gasp in his breath.

'Hi, it's Blaine Anderson. I was wondering if the delivery to Apartment 45 at the Bellington Hotel was on its way?'

'Oh!' the man says and he can hear the creak of the office chair as the owner sits down. 'Blaine! I'm really sorry, kid, but we've been run off our feet this week. One of the A&P round the corner is closed for renovations so everyone's coming to us, and your order was late on the list so it's coming tomorrow, okay?'

'But we have no food!' Blaine argues.

'Sorry, kid. You'll just have to come in and collect, Aaron doesn't have time to swing by your place and deliver when he's hardly getting a lunch break as it is.'

'I can't just-' he goes to continue angrily, but the sentence dies on his lips. What's really stopping him from stepping outside the hotel, walking a block to the grocers and picking up their shopping?

'Thanks,' he finishes instead and hangs up, replacing the phone on the counter.

It's easy, right? Just a few steps out the door, a few more to the elevator and down to ground level and then outside. Easy.

He's not agoraphobic, he's not scared of the outside, he just-

He doesn't go outside and meet people in person. He sits in his room and does schoolwork and writes poetry and-

Maybe he is just a little bit scared. Of what people are going to think of him, with his too pale skin, and bags under his eyes from not sleeping. He slips into the bathroom, examines his face in the mirror. Definitely pale, but at least he doesn't look too tired, especially if he splashes his face with water.

His clothes are presentable, his hair too, and if he just smiles - God, can he even remember how to smile? - he'll be able to pull off the image of someone who actually is a part of the world they live in. He slips his hands into his pocket, hums a tune that he hopes is uplifting, and slips out of the bathroom towards the front door, grabbing his wallet and key card from the counter.

It's only New York City. He's been here plenty of times before. It's not an alien thing, this city.

But as he steps out of the elevator and crosses the lobby, he wonders maybe it's not the city that's the alien.

Maybe it's him.

* * *

It's crowded and busy, the street, and he slips between pedestrians, one hand over his pocket to keep his wallet safe. The grocer is only a block or two away, only a block or two, but when he gets there, his heart is already high in his chest, beating heavily. His palms are sweating, the city is too big, and maybe he could get lost, and he feels fifteen again, unsure of the world.

The doors slide upon with the hum of automatic rotors and he slips into the cool atmosphere. The store is crowded and he pushes past customers, trying to keep his elbows and shoulders to himself. 'Hello?' he calls out as he battles his way towards the counter. 'Hello?'

'Kid!' a man says and he recognises the voice of the owner, as he must have recognised his own.

'Hey! Um, have you got my stuff somewhere?' he asks. The man gives him a thumbs up and disappears into a side room and Blaine wants to get out of here. It's too crowded. The world shouldn't be this crowded. Ohio, before they started moving, was never this crowded.

'Wait?' someone asks from beside him. The boys voice is high and light, it doesn't quite match his frame, but it matches _him _entirely, and Blaine turns away quickly, trying not to look, to stare. 'Did he just say he's getting your stuff?'

The boy puts his hands on his hips, turns slightly in Blaine's direction. He should meet his eye, he should respond, but he just rolls his lip between his teeth and mumbles, 'Yeah, I guess.'

'Because I've been waiting here for half an hour, and I'm still waiting! He just keeps telling me he's too busy, that my order hasn't been made up yet, but I _called it in this morning!' _This he calls towards the direction of the side room, and Blaine shrinks further back, doesn't answer.

'Normally,' the boy continues, and maybe he's used to holding his own conversation, because apparently Blaine isn't needed to make this work, 'I just get my stuff delivered, but apparently they're so backed up today that they can't get anything out to anybody. I mean, I come here for the good service, don't you? When did you order?'

'Uh-' Blaine murmurs. 'Yesterday.'

'Oh, that must be horrible! I guess I do ask for things quickly, but they should be able to get on it, right?'

He looks like he's about to start moving towards Blaine, but the owners voice is ringing out, and Blaine looks up, sees him carrying his bags out from the side room. Heaps of bags. For the first time, Blaine remembers how many groceries he actually ordered yesterday. He suddenly wishes he'd brought a backpack with him or something, so he might be able to get it all home.

'Wow, how many of you are there?' the boy beside him asks, the edge of a grin in his voice.

'Uh, two? And a half. Kind of.'

And then he can hear the smile slip from the other boys voice. 'Oh.' And that _oh _is like a deflating balloon, sinking down, down and settling in Blaine's gut like guilt.

'Um-' he says, trying to rectify the situation. What does he do? What does he say? Why is the boy suddenly upset? 'Me and my mum, and sometimes my brother.' The owner places the bags in his hands and he moves them around, trying to get a grip where the bags aren't going to break and collapse on the ground.

_'Oh.'_

And that _oh _surprises him, makes him turn around and catch the boys eye, catch it, and the bags nearly slip from his grasp.

He is breathtakingly beautiful. Slim, elegant face. Perfectly laughing mouth. Bright, impossibly blue eyes.

He tries to move, but maybe, just maybe, Blaine's feet are actually glued to the spot.

* * *

When Blaine first told his father he was gay, it wasn't a voluntary thing. Absolutely not, no. If Blaine had had it his way, his father would never find out, and would be turning in his grave when he did.

But he was thirteen and young, and when he wasn't liking girls the way his brother liked girls, he didn't know what he was supposed to do. When he called him out on it, asked him in that laughing, mocking tone, 'Has Blainey got a crush on Hannah Barker?' his heart raced, his skin _burned _and he wanted nothing more than to shout at him, pound his fists into him, scream, _'Don't talk about things you don't understand! I don't like girls! I like boys!'_

And when he did, he only felt Cooper's hand catching his upper arm, dragging him out into the living room, saying in a calm, chilling voice, 'Did you hear what Blaine just said?'

It didn't matter that he didn't mean it, not like they thought he meant it, not like he _knew. _It wasn't like he was in love with his best friend or anything, he'd never _been _in love, he didn't _know. _He just knew that when he looked at girls, his heart was supposed to leap into his chest, and blood pump faster through his veins, but it didn't. He didn't get that feeling unless he was looking at boys.

And even today, he'd never met anyone who he'd actually wished to be with, longed for like his heart was trying to crawl out of his chest and meet the other's own. Not until now.

* * *

'Are you okay?' the boy asks, leaning down to meet Blaine, where he's desperately trying to gather the groceries he dropped and keep the boy's gaze all at once. He can't look away, can't break that contact now it's formed. Those eyes burn into his and he can't, he can't, he can't.

'Are you okay?'

'Um,' he manages to get out, reaches his hand out, captures the last bag he can see out of the corner of his eye and tries to stand up. His knees almost fall out beneath him, shaking too much to hold his weight, but the boy's hand is reaching for his elbow. His fingers - long, elegant, impossible fingers - are balancing him, holding him up.

'Let me walk you home. My groceries aren't going to be ready any time soon, anyway.'

His fingers aren't leaving, they're gripping gripping gripping, taking one of the heavy bags from his numb fingers and he feels so _stupid. _How can this boy - this perfect, impossible boy - be doing this to him?

'Where do you live?' he asks, shakes Blaine's arm slightly. 'Where are we going?'

'Uh- the uh- the Bellington.' He hopes he'll know where that is, because Blaine doesn't think he'd be able to find his way home at this rate, especially with the way he _can't stop staring._

'Do I have something on my face?' the boy asks, lets his hand leave Blaine's elbow to brush against his own pale cheek. Blaine let's out a shaky breath.

The boy assures himself that nothing is there, holds out his now free hand for another bag of Blaine's groceries. 'Sorry, what was your name again?'

'Blaine.' The word is out of Blaine's lips before he can think about it.

'Blaine, hmm.' And when the boy returns it, his lips forming his name, he thinks he might just drop the bags all over again. 'Kurt.'

_Kurt._

He nods stupidly, blinks quickly and tries to tear his eyes away enough to reach the door, the street and back home. Kurt's fingers are prying the bags away from his grasp, evening the load between them. He nods, gently, motions for Blaine to push his way out the door and then they're on the street, heading towards the hotel. The breeze is tight in Blaine's lungs but now that he's not looking at Kurt (_Kurt, Kurt, Kurt) _he can see, can guide his own way through the streets.

'How old are you, Blaine?' Kurt calls, raising his voice over the sound of the traffic. He's trying to catch his eye again, but Blaine keeps staring straight ahead. He can't get lost again, he can't _let himself. _

'Seventeen,' he says, ducks around a woman with a pram. 'Almost eighteen.'

'I'm nineteen.' Kurt's really good at answering the unspoken questions, continue a conversation without anything must there, but Blaine listens, takes it all in, and hopes someday he'll get to use this information, not matter how unlikely that chance. 'Just, though,' he continues. 'I'm a freshman at the Conservatory of Dramatic Arts.'

Blaine doesn't say _I'm still in high school. _He doesn't say _I'm kind of homeschooled._

'What colleges are you looking at?' Kurt asks, and Blaine turns his head slightly, catches himself before he catches Kurt's eye, and then looks ahead quickly again.

'Uh, I'm not really sure yet.'

'What are you thinking of majoring in?'

Blaine had never thought about it before, never considered what going to college would mean. 'English,' he says. It's a slip of the tongue, too quick for him to really have thought about it, but now that it's out there it makes sense to him, simple easy sense.

'Oh, that sounds cool! I wish I understood my own language much better than I do! I'd love to major in English, but I suck at writing essays and all that kind of stuff. I'm a singer, a countertenor. I act as well. All that's easy for me.'

'Mm.'

'This is the hotel, right?' And they're there, at the revolving door, and Kurt still has Blaine's bags. He reaches out for them, but Kurt shakes his head. 'No, don't be silly, I'm walking you up to your apartment, you can't carry all this stuff on your own.'

Blaine presses the button for the elevator with shaky fingers.

* * *

Kurt slips into his apartment, into his space, and puts Blaine's bags down on the kitchen counter. 'Can I help you unpack?' he asks.

It's a simple question, a neutral, innocent question, but Blaine's eyes dart to the clock, desperate. He feels out of place, and this is the one place he _doesn't _feel out of place. It's almost three, his mother could be coming back from meetings any time from now on, or Cooper could be turning up for a quick meal, or any combination thereof. He turns back to Kurt, keeps his eyes lowered on the groceries.

'Um, my mother could be home soon. You should probably go.' He pulls the milk bottle from the bag and pushes it into the fridge.

'Oh.'

And that _oh _is so laden with things that Blaine doesn't understand, human emotions he only really hears in his mothers voice; that utter disappointment, complete loss of hope.

'But if you really want to, I guess it will only be a few minutes, right?'

He can see the smile, in his peripheral vision, twitch at the corner of Kurt's mouth. It is small, but it is there, and unlike when he sees the same look on his mothers face, Blaine's stomach swoops upwards.

Kurt steps closer, pulls out cereal and bread. 'Where do these go?' he asks. A quick point and he is being led in the right direction. He's good with groceries, remembers where things go from the few directions Blaine gives. After unpacking each bag, he twists it into a tight knot, places them in the centre of the bench.

He's quickly finished the bags on his side of the table, leaning over to glance at the receipt, and Blaine is still going on his, too caught up in giving Kurt directions and keeping himself from staring. He doesn't start on Blaine's side though, for which he is grateful, but instead swings his body towards and away from the bench, humming softly.

'What are you doing?' Blaine asks before he's even aware of the question.

'When do your parents get home?'

'My mother's an architect; I'm never quite sure.'

'And your dad?'

And that's the question, isn't it? How does Blaine tell a boy - a very attractive boy, despite the fact that he has no real assurance that he's gay - that his father is dead? And that he's glad about it?

'Um, my dad's not around anymore.'

'Divorce?' He words it as a question. Blaine's never heard it worded as a question before.

'No,' he says. 'No.'

And Kurt's eyes go big, glassy. 'Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I didn't realise, I didn't mean to be so rude!' He's backing away from the table, holding his arms close to himself as if trying to protect himself from Blaine. The door is behind him and he reaches blindly with one hand, snagging it and stepping out, away, out of Blaine's space.

He's already in the corridor when he whispers, 'My mother. My mother died when I was eight.'

But then he's gone, slipping from the apartment and down the corridor and Blaine can't move, can't think, is just standing there, wondering what happened.

He grips the edge of the island, holds himself upright, and his hand skids on the receipt. It's the same receipt that Kurt was studying so closely.

At one end, almost ripped away from the rest of the sheet, is a scrawled number, a phone number, followed by a bright smiling face. It's most definitely not the same face Kurt had when he slipped out the door.

Blaine rips the number fully off and slips it into his pocket.

* * *

_II.  
__You've tipped my balance  
__and now I'm not sure where I stand.  
__Is it possible for you to leave my life as you entered it?  
__No!_


	3. Good Day To You, Dear Sir

**Good Day To You, Dear Sir**

_Is there something I am supposed to tell you?  
__You leave your signature on my day  
__but you leave it running.  
__Good day to you, dear sir,  
__the model of a gentleman,  
__but I am not that man._

When his mother comes home, she asks what Blaine tipped the delivery man. He doesn't tell her that he didn't arrive today, that he ended up going to the store himself. He doesn't tell her about Kurt, the boy at the grocer and the boy in his apartment, and he most definitely doesn't tell her about the number in his pocket.

He makes up a figure and she seems content.

She tells him with a half-hearted smile that dinner will be half an hour, and Blaine knows he is dismissed. He slips into his bedroom, takes the piece of paper from his pocket, and sits it down upon his desk. He can't stop staring at it.

It's a simple thing, a piece of paper. He doesn't know why it has this power of him, why he can't look away, why it seems to hold more than just a scribble of digits. It seems like an easy solution, write them down in his phone, call them. That's what they do in movies, right?

But Blaine's the first person to ask if you want an in-depth thesis on the unrealistic aspects of movies. He _prides _himself on living in the real world, not believing any of that Hollywood, sugar-coated bullshit.

He stares at the piece of paper, runs a finger over it, doesn't grab his phone out of his pocket to enter the number. The boy that wrote his number when Blaine wasn't looking, in happy bright cursive, and topped off with a perfect scrawled smile; that boy left the apartment, face down-turned in horror and sadness and God, he can't want to talk to Blaine now, can he? He can't.

His heart races in his chest, breath captures in his lungs as he stares and something like this shouldn't have this reaction. Not to Blaine.

He pushes the slip of receipt paper to the front of the desk with such sudden force that it slips off the hard wood, falls behind. He swears, but maybe, just maybe, this is the perfect opportunity. It won't hold it's power over him if he can't see it.

When he sits down at the desk, he doesn't let himself look for it, seek it out around his feet. Instead he reaches for his notebook of poetry and his fountain pen, scrawls out words and gentle metaphors and when he's done, slips into his pajamas and bed.

The scrap of paper still lies behind his desk. He thinks about it - cannot stop - but he doesn't get up to see it, to take the numbers. He holds his breath, counts to ten, and hope he might be able to fall asleep.

* * *

Cooper's still in the apartment when Blaine wakes up. He can't remember him coming last night, it must have been incredibly early in the morning, and as soon as he sees him, he turns on his heel, trying to slip away back into his room.

But his brother has seen him, gets up off his seat to catch his arm and turn him around. 'Hey, Blaine, I need to tell you something.'

The panic falls dead into his stomach. Nothing Cooper could have to tell him could be good. Nothing at all.

He leads him to the kitchen counter, settles him down upon the breakfast stool. Their mother is opposite them, already turning bacon in a large frying pan and sending Blaine a smile which speaks of a family soap opera but doesn't reach her eyes.

'What is it?' Blaine asks. Cooper's eyes light up with genuine enthusiasm, and to Blaine, they seem out of place within their cold tired household.

'You know Julia?' he asks, fingers drumming against the counter. 'My girlfriend? Well…' And he draws that "well" out, long and teasing, and when no one responds, follows it with another.

'Just tell us, Cooper,' their mother says, piling bacon onto plates and starting on the eggs.

'Julia and I…' Again, another drawn out pause, and of course, Cooper was never one to say something simply. 'We're getting married!'

And Blaine doesn't know whether that panic that was building in his gut has now dropped to his bowels, or just been joined by sheer dread. He presses his fingers to his forehead and says nothing.

* * *

It's easy for Blaine to pretend, in the mess that follows Cooper's announcement, that he wasn't up half the night thinking about a boy from the grocery store, or that he isn't still captivated by it all, oozing through his mind like caramel.

He doesn't mention it, he shouldn't mention it, so he keeps it bottled up, using Cooper's - and later, Julia's - presence to distract him from the slip of receipt paper behind his desk. His mother goes off to work once she's made breakfast, but Cooper stays, wants to talk with Blaine, and help him get to know his new girlfriend - wait, _fiance - _Julia.

Blaine doesn't understand it. He doesn't get how Cooper - his brother Cooper - could possibly meet a girl and within less than three months, be engaged to her. Cooper, who is renowned for his one night stands and quick hook ups at bars. Cooper, who is renowned for dating one girl one week, and another the next. Cooper who can't be faithful if his life depended on it.

Who is now engaged to Julia.

Blaine tries to make it through the conversation without losing concentration, tries to pay attention to Julia - hair flipper, very glossed lips, larger than average breasts - and respond appropriately with as much gusto as he can manage. He tries to capture the enthusiasm that Cooper inherently has, has never faltered.

But the most he manages is to respond to the questions asked directly of him, and nod at the appropriate moments.

When they leave, it's already past midday, and Blaine is horribly behind on his schoolwork, and maybe he should have made his excuses earlier. He can't even bring himself to start. He tells himself he'll have time tomorrow, and he's that far ahead it doesn't matter anyway.

But now it's the afternoon, and he's eaten a bowl of nachos with Cooper and Julia (the one meal that Coop can successfully cook) and what does he do now?

He slips into his bedroom, pulls his notebook from it's place and starts scribbling but the words aren't quite making sense and he crosses them out, again and again and again.

The page is full of dark lines when he finally gives up, folding his arms on his desk and collapsing his head onto them. He doesn't mean to sleep, doesn't mean to slip out of consciousness as easy as he does, like dandelion blossom on the breeze. He doesn't realise that the part of his brain that keeps him alert, insomniatic, too awake, has given up.

* * *

When Blaine was six, his mother told him about her first love, a boy from her high school with deep brown eyes and wide giving smile. She would meet him after school, for what her parents called tutoring, and she called a good time. They'd only recently moved to America, and her dark Filipino skin and strong accent captivated him. She was the exotic beauty, and he was besotted.

Slowly, their love blossomed, and as all teenage romances began - or so she said - they became closer and closer until they were inseparable.

This is where she left her story when she told it, giving Blaine a secret smile when his father entered the room. Blaine, still impossibly young and naive, knew of love only as it was portrayed in his movies: long lasting and impossible to break.

And so, when his father came to tuck him into bed that night, he whispered to him, conspiratorially, 'Mom told me about how you fell in love, in high school.'

His father's face turned to stone, the arm that was encircling Blaine's back to hug him freezing into place. 'I met your mom at college, kiddo,' he said, softly, but there was something in his tone that told Blaine not to mention it again.

It wasn't until he was much older that he had understood his mother's secret.

* * *

Blaine is woken by his mother shaking his shoulders roughly. His cheek has a large red line across it where it had rested against the edge of the desk, and there's a throbbing in his foot where the circulation had been cut off. She brushes his hair back, kisses him on the forehead and whispers, 'Wake up, baby.'

'Nnph.' Blaine's eyes blink open, focus on his mother's face, and she looks just like she did when he was six, before he came out, before his father's death. He blinks again, and the hard lines of her face come into the foreground, the hard turn of her mouth, and when she steps away, she is the same mother he has become used to.

'You need to eat dinner, Blaine,' she says.

'Mmph.'

She rocks him again, a little harsher and when he finally leans back, stretches, she steps back to the door. 'If you're not out here eating in five, I'll be coming back to force feed you.' Another little smile, not quite right.

'Yeah.'

His mother leaves his room, and Blaine presses his head back into the desk, tries to push out the fuzz that has slipped into his skull. He hasn't felt like this in a long time, like he's slept so _well._

When the feeling has returned to his foot, he stands up and slips out of his room. His mother is sitting at the breakfast counter. There's no pots or pans on the stove or in the sink, so he concludes that she must have ordered in room service or take out.

'What're we eating?' he asks softly, sitting down beside her.

'Chinese. I couldn't be bothered cooking.'

'I can tell.' He picks up the fork she's placed at his setting and spears a piece of marinaded chicken. 'How was your day?'

His mother purses her lips, almost frowns, but she picks herself up at the last moment. 'Things aren't going so well with the current land. We thought we just had the glass to go in, and then fittings, but the glazier says he can't provide stock anymore. They're going into liquidation and they don't have the things we need.' She mimics his action, takes a bite of chicken. 'Are you okay with staying in New York a little longer? It'll give Cooper and Julia a chance to organise a proper engagement party, too.'

Engagement party, great. There's nothing in her tone to suggest that there's reasons _Blaine _may want to stay, but he doesn't rise, just says calmly, 'It's fine.'

'Are you excited, Blaine?'

'For what?'

'The engagement! Cooper will be a married man, for once! Aren't you proud?'

There's a word for it, Blaine thinks, but it is most definitely not proud. 'It sure makes a change from his normal gadabout self,' he replies instead.

'_Gadabout_.' His mother rolls the word around on her tongue. 'I think that describes Cooper pretty well, don't you think?' As if Blaine wasn't the one that said it.

'Hm.'

'I wonder where he got it from?' she asks, more to herself than to Blaine. 'His father wasn't a gadabout.'

'No.'

'Still, you can't deny that Cooper is, can you? At least he's settling down now.'

'Mm.'

She sits for a moment, content to eat her dinner, but then suddenly she's rounding on Blaine, trying to catch his eye and make conversation and just like that morning - which feels like a lifetime ago, since his nap - the panic burns like fire in his belly. 'You're not a gadabout, Blaine.'

'No.'

'You should find yourself someone. Still not into girls?' The way she says it puts Blaine's teeth on edge. She was never the bad one, didn't push him up against walls like his father did, desperate for a different answer than the one Blaine had no way to deny, but neither could she accept the fact, or talk about it as if it was something other than a horrific curse perhaps he would be rid of someday. Sometimes, Blaine wished he could have parents that would just accept him for who he was, like the parents of the career criminals in jail, who visit them every weekend and seem perfectly content with their children, even when they know the things they have done are atrocious.

What Blaine has done - and hasn't done - is not atrocious and he knows it, has read enough articles on gender roles and sexuality and the ways in which the world is slowly changing. But he knows his parents aren't slowly changing.

'No,' is all he says however.

His mother looks away quickly, chews slowly, and Blaine can see the twitch in her jaw which tells him she wishes to say something, but is holding herself back. He doesn't ask her to speak, but it takes only a minute before she works up her own nerve.

'Any boys then?'

The dread is gone, replaced with pure terror and all he can see is the scrap of receipt paper, glowing across his vision.

'What?'

'Uh- don't worry, I was just asking-'

'_What did you say?_' He doesn't mean to sound forceful, doesn't mean to scare her like he so obviously does when she shrinks away, moving as far from his seat as possible without moving the chair or falling off.

'Um, any- any boys?'

He stands up suddenly, pushes his dinner away from himself. His fork hits the counter and clatters, but he's already stepping away, moving towards the hallway and his bedroom.

All that he sees is the slip of receipt paper.

* * *

_I come from a broken home,  
__dear sir,  
__and maybe that is not what you want.  
__It is probably not what you want.  
__I sleep easy in the fact that you did not know what you seek,  
__and now that you do  
__your ideals have changed entirely.  
__This is the effect I know I have._


	4. Love Is Dangerous

**Love Is Dangerous**

_I.  
__Mother,  
__I cannot deny to you that love is dangerous.  
__You have taught me this like no one else._

It takes him three good pulls to move his desk far enough away from the wall to get behind it and seize the piece of receipt paper. It's become crumpled, scrunched between wall and desk, but he smooths it out against the wood and doesn't bother pushing the desk back before slipping his phone from his pocket and dialling the number.

* * *

Blaine, fourteen years old, tries not to cry, but the tears fall too easily down his face. His father's hand is wrapped tight around his wrist, fingers bruising. 'You are not my son,' he says, voice heavy and thick with drink. 'My son is not a faggot. My son does not fuck guys.'

He tries to tear his hand away, but his father's fingers dig in, too tight and he hisses in pain. 'I'm not-'

'Don't lie to me! I know what you told your mother! I know what you are!'

He grabs Blaine by the shoulders, pushes him backwards into the wall roughly.

'If I could,' he says, 'I would kick you out.' He shoves him once more and Blaine feels the crack of skin and bone at the back of his head, the dull ache of a headache and he prays that he hasn't broken bones, that he's only cut skin and the worst problem is his brain rattling around in his skull. He remembers, in that moment, seeing a video about babies who are shaken by their parents, often in a fit of frustration, and their brains rattle so much in their skulls that they die. Blaine kind of wishes he was a baby.

'Don't talk about this under my roof again,' his father says, and releases his arm just as suddenly as he grabbed it.

Blaine's knees give way and he collapses to the ground in the hallway. He can hear his mother from the kitchen, trying to rush to his aid, but his father says something, low and menacing, and she stops with a stifled whimper.

No one comes to Blaine's side, or helps him to his feet. When his mind stops reeling and he can hold his head straight without the world spinning, he stands up, slowly and unsteadily, and stumbles to his bedroom.

* * *

_II.  
__There is a hope alighting in my heart,  
__I long for something more than my life of books and learning.  
__I feel like a child again, bright for the world,  
__yet only when I am with you._

The blood that had burned like fire in Blaine's veins turns cold when the line connects. Like a switch it flickers out, puttering to a stop and that soft melodic voice on the other end of the line makes his heart skip three beats, an erratic _boom-boom boom boom-boom-boom._

'Hello?'

'Kurt?' He doesn't know how he manages to form the word, how his tongue settles around the sounds and letters. It should be simple, he knows. Names are just names, just other words. But it catches in his throat and comes out hurried, almost a gasp.

'Blaine?' Kurt's voice is steady; high, lilting, but impossibly steady.

'Yes.' He grips his cellphone tighter in his hand.

'I didn't think you'd see the number,' Kurt says calmly. 'Or that you'd keep it.'

'I didn't know what else to do.'

For the first time during that call, Blaine hears Kurt's voice falter. 'Oh,' he manages, and it is just that little bit too high. Blaine's fingers tighten around his phone.

'I'm sorry about what happened earlier,' he says, slowly. 'I didn't mean to frighten you.'

'You didn't.' He can hear the quick take of breath on the other end of the line, and then, 'I just didn't know what to say.'

'You didn't have to say anything.' The words fall easily from Blaine's lips, and the sigh that reaches him from the other end of the line feels like a weight is being lifted off their shoulders.

'I just-' Kurt continues, 'My mother and I were really close, and my gut instinct said you weren't with your father, but I didn't want to assume, and maybe I should have just talked to you, but it was easier to run away.' He stops then, pulls in a well needed breath. Blaine's voice fills the silence.

'It's always easier to run away.'

'I know.'

He doesn't ask Blaine to explain, but stays silent on the other end of the line, waiting for him to say something, anything. Expectation hangs heavy in the air, but he bites his lip, changes the topic and wonders how this boy - this boy he barely knows - can have such an effect on him, to make him say things he's never said to anyone else before.

'Kurt,' he says softly. 'My mother- she thinks, she thinks being- being who I am is something I can change.'

And maybe it's not so much a change of topic, and Kurt, on the other end of the line, lets out a breathy sigh.

'I thought as much.'

'It's not.'

'I know. You know I know.'

And maybe Blaine does. Maybe all along, the reason Blaine's been drawn to this boy is because he's so _obviously, _so _painfully, impossibly, obviously _gay.

'You- you are too, aren't you?' he asks, and he's never said it like that before, not even to him. Not like he _is. _Only ever like he _could be. _Not since his father showed him what being gay meant.

Kurt almost laughs at that, at Blaine's words. He can hear him on the other end of the line, pressing his hand tight over his mouth, similar to how he did as he backed out of Blaine's door but different, the edge of amusement and happiness in his voice. 'Of course. Isn't it obvious?'

'I didn't want to assume.'

'At least you have manners in that respect.' His tone isn't bitter, but Blaine has the feeling the same words had been said in that way many times before. 'Better than most people.'

'People shouldn't make assumptions.'

'No.' Kurt voice is gentle and soft. 'No, they shouldn't.' He holds a pause, long and silent, and Blaine breath catches in his throat. He tries to speak, but he can't break this silence. It curls into the air and he feels as if it should be awkward, but it settles in his bones and the feeling is ultimately warmth, and comfort. It's strange, the way Kurt seems to bring him comfort, even in the darkest moments of their conversation.

'Blaine,' Kurt says finally, 'I'm glad you called.'

'I told you before, I couldn't do anything else.'

'It's been a while,' Kurt asks. 'What's changed to make talking to me so urgent?' He's almost laughing, Blaine realises, voice amused behind the words of worry and question.

'Nothing,' he says quickly. 'Everything.'

'That sounds like the strangest answer I've ever heard.'

Blaine bites his lip. 'Do you ask the question very often?'

Another pause, much smaller this time. Then, 'No.'

Blaine's tight grip on his phone loosens and he lets himself sit down on the side of his bed. 'Good,' he whispers.

Kurt doesn't ask what it means, doesn't press for more information. He just lets out a deep breath and on his end of the line, listens.

Blaine no longer knows how to stop talking.

* * *

_III.  
__And if I told you that love is dangerous  
__would you believe me?  
__Or would you continue on and on  
__and breaking my heart?  
__You could take it and break it into tiny little pieces  
__and there is absolutely nothing I could do to stop you.  
__Love is dangerous._


	5. Reason

**Reason**

_I.  
__I've never really had a reason to dig deeper._

Talking to Kurt becomes second nature for Blaine. He yearns for it, that simple connection over the airwaves, more than he has ever yearned for anything in his life. He doesn't understand it, doesn't attempt to understand, but at night, when he leaves early for his bedroom and curls up under the covers, he dials Kurt's number and holds his phone against his ear.

The other boy is almost always awake. He doesn't ask Blaine why he goes to his room so early, doesn't question his motives. He only listens as Blaine asks about his day, and replies as best he can. It seems easy to him, their conversations, now that the awkwardness and tension has passed; as easy as breathing.

'And then Rachel wanted me to go out for dinner with her but I turned her down,' he laughs on the other end of the line. 'She always just wants to talk about herself and whatever she's doing at the moment and I didn't think it was worth my time.' Another snigger and then, 'She was probably hideously offended.'

'You?' Blaine asks, 'Offend someone? Never!'

'You haven't seen my bitchy side, Mr Anderson,' Kurt laughs, and Blaine echoes it.

'I guess I'm just perfect then, compared to Rachel?'

Another laugh from Kurt and then he says, almost a whisper, 'You're perfect.'

These are the moments that Blaine yearns for. When he's in them, his heart aches, pounding in his chest, too fast too hard, and his hand grips his phone like he would fall from the edge of the world if he didn't. He can hear his breath, echoing in the room; but when it's over, and they've moved on to something else and when he finally hangs up, he longs to be there again, feeling that intense surge of emotion that he almost never gets anywhere else.

Afterwards, he slips from his bed and grabs his notebook of poetry, uncaps his pen and writes.

He holds onto his phone like a lifeline.

'I'm not that perfect,' he says finally, rocking his heels into his mattress. 'I'm not a very good cook, and my hair never stays in place.'

'Don't lie, Blaine. Your hair looks like it belongs on a Disney prince.' The lightness slides back into Kurt's voice like honey, like it had never left in the first place, had never fallen into that depth of seriousness.

'No prince,' Blaine returns. 'Captain Hook, maybe. The curls are definitely present and healthy.'

'Do you steal maidens to give them to the crocodiles?'

'You haven't paid close attention to my prosthetic limbs, have you?'

Kurt is giggling, spluttering, and Blaine covers a hand over his mouth to mute his laughter. If the moments of tension are what he yearns for, this is what he loves, their impossible connection, the way they simply understand each other. It was instant for them, this ability to make each other laugh. It was like they ran on the same wavelength, breathed the same air. Yet there were so many differences between them.

Kurt grew up in a family that loved him, no matter what he did or said, who he was. And when his mother died, he cried beside her grave for hours, unable to be consoled or removed by his father, if he'd even wished to. And afterwards, together, they'd managed. It might have only been the two of them, but Kurt Hummel's father loved him unconditionally, something Blaine was painfully aware that his mother didn't understand. He knew she tried, he had no doubt about that, but she didn't try hard enough.

And then there are the even more basic differences. Kurt is flamboyant, confident in his sexuality, and Blaine is too used to covering up and making himself seem as inconspicuous as possible.

But somehow they still click. It's like opposites attract. And Blaine absolutely loves it.

'I have to go,' Kurt says, a sigh in his voice like he's hoping he could just keep talking all night long. 'I have three essays and you've distracted me enough already, Captain Hook.'

'I am not distracting!'

A laugh on the other end of the line and then Kurt says, still obviously smiling, 'Yes you are.'

'Am not!'

'Are too, and I'm leaving right now before I talk to you all night and fail this unit! Bye, Blaine!'

And then he's hanging up and Blaine doesn't even get to say goodbye, but it doesn't matter. He leans back into his pillow and grins.

There's something about talking to Kurt that makes his heart soar.

* * *

_II.  
__It seems a lot more difficult when the answer is the truth._

It's a Tuesday when Cooper calls past the apartment, carrying a bottle of wine. He slides it into the fridge, gives their mother a hug and tells her in big bright words, 'The engagement party's on Saturday!'

There are the many expected announcements of 'Is it too soon?' and 'What else do you need to plan?' But the only thing Blaine can really say about his mother's outlook on the whole event, is that she is _proud. _She pushes back Cooper's hair, hugs him tight and sure around his shoulders, and when he asks if she has anything for him to eat before he heads home, she pushes that nights leftover spaghetti, which was supposed to be Blaine's lunch tomorrow, into his thankful hands.

Blaine doesn't argue. He's smarter than that. He keeps his seat at the breakfast bar, holds his hands tight against each other in the large pocket of his hoodie and doesn't say a word. And then Cooper's gone before his mother even looks at him again, and when the door finally closes behind him, Blaine stands up.

'Am I going?' he asks.

'Of course you are. It's your brother's engagement party.'

'Okay.'

And he goes into his room, drags his notebook towards himself and starts writing. His phone sits beside his resting left hand and he looks to it between lines of poetry, hoping it will ring, or even just a text message, but he's finished the poem when it finally does ring, and he takes it up, pressing the speaker against his ear as he slides out of his chair and on to his bed and stares at the ceiling.

'Hey, I've been waiting for you to call.'

* * *

_III.  
__We are the kings and queens, the royal family of misinterpretations._

The party is just getting started when Blaine and his mother arrive to Cooper and Julia's apartment in SoHo. It's not very big, but they've made it home, with Julia's artwork on the walls and Coopers movie artefacts displayed on the bookshelves and resting atop the old grainy TV.

He steps through the apartment behind his mother, heading towards the kitchen where she deposits her tea towel covered tray of sweet and sour casserole. Blaine smirks when she tries to hide the lid of the container, a store bought casserole from Tesco. She could have cooked, she definitely had the time, but he has the feeling that her skills have slipped away from her. The beautiful home made dinners and cakes turned, almost imperceptibly to things that could be put together in five minutes after a long day at work, or by a fifteen year old with no sense of motivation. She had told him it would be only a temporary change, but as their temporary lifestyle remained, so did the horrible, store bought food made from mostly tasteless ingredients.

There's smooth jazz coming from the stereo, and it's not really much Cooper's style and none of the other guests seem to be enjoying it, but his mother's head moves along in small shifts of her neck and shoulders. It's kind of a dance, and when Cooper comes in through the sliding door and wraps his arms around her shoulders, she smiles the warm smile that is reserved only for him. Blaine eyes the sofa and takes a seat, drawing his feet up under his knees.

It's clear from the onset that most of the people at the party are young, Cooper and Julia's age, and they're old enough to have their own families, but their mother is surely out of place here, and so is Blaine. He's _too _young, and when one of Julia's friends, a girl in her mid twenties leans her head into the kitchen to call for another beer, he leans back into the chair and sighs. There is no reason for him to be here.

He slips his phone out of his pocket and starts texting, typing in Kurt's number with a practised ease. The words are meaningless; a jumble of whatever comes into his mind and has no real depth but when the reply comes through, it makes him smile, and he can ignore the party going on around him and just pretend it's him and Kurt, talking in his bedroom like he does every night.

He's in the same position, doing the same thing, when Cooper proposes a toast: to Julia and how beautiful she is and how nothing can compare to her and thank you mom for coming out tonight and bringing casserole and that's it. No thank you, Blaine, not even an acknowledgement of his existence. Cooper hasn't talked to him all night.

_I have to go now, my roommate is desperate to discuss why I can't keep my patterns and sheet music to myself. I'll talk to you tomorrow?_

Blaine doesn't know what to reply. He doesn't want to stop talking, wants to just stay on the line, with his stupid phone on his lap for the rest of the night, just talking. That's all he wants, to just keep talking.

_Okay, talk to you then!_

He types instead, and locks the phone and slides it back into his pocket.

The party's already almost over. His mother is packing up dishes, but the smile hasn't moved from her face and every now and again she flips back her hair, moves it out of her face. She seems so much _happier _like this, when she's with Cooper and everything seems right to her. Blaine used to want to make his mother smile like that, but it doesn't seem worth it anymore. What use is making one person smile when he can't even make himself smile, not unless he's talking to Kurt.

'Blaine, are you ready to go?'

He stands up and doesn't say a word as they walk out the door.

* * *

When he goes to bed that night, he still draws his phone out of his pocket and dials Kurt's number. Their many shared text messages at Cooper's engagement party don't seem enough and maybe he's just selfish but he wants to hear Kurt's voice.

'Hey,' he says, warm and quiet and Blaine returns with, 'Did it go okay?'

A laugh on the other end of the line and then, 'My roommate? Just swell!'

'Need to talk about it?'

'Not at all.' Kurt sighs, beautiful and long and then, 'Yeah, probably. He's just an ass, you know. He wants everything and gives nothing in return and that would be okay if he just wasn't _my damn roommate.'_

'I get it.'

'No, you don't. You're still in high school, Blaine. You live at home, you don't even have to actually _go _to school.'

'My mother can be a real pain in the ass sometimes.' He says it with a smile, pretends there's no truth behind it, but Kurt sees everything, he always does.

'She thinks she's doing what's best for you.'

'Well, it's not.'

'You know that, I know that.' He smiles. 'But what can we do about it?'

Blaine lets out a growl, deep in the back of his throat. 'Nothing. Absolutely nothing.'

'Exactly.'

He leans back into his pillows, closes his eyes and pretends he's in Kurt's dorm room, sitting side by side and whispering across the small distances, not the quite large distance between his hotel apartment room and Kurt's. 'Could you meet with me?'

It slips out of his mouth unbidden, and the intake of breath on Kurt's end of the line is directly in proportionate to his lack of tact.

'I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make any kind of anything I just-'

'Of course.' It's said on an expelling of breath, that same breath that he had inhaled noisily and now he's almost laughing on his end of the line, and Blaine doesn't really understand why.

'What?'

'Of course I'll visit you! I've been meaning to ask you, but whenever I started, I always ended up thinking I sounded like a stuck up idiot, asking someone if _I _can visit _them.'_

'You don't have to think that.'

'Well, I get that now!'

Another laugh, short and high and he's smiling, both of them.

'So you'll come over? Tomorrow?'

'I don't have class till three, so I'll come over for lunch, if that's good on your end.'

'Perfect.'

'Then I'll see you then.'

But they don't hang up. They don't hang up till Blaine's eyes are more than half shut of their own accord and when he finally climbs out of his clothes and pulls on his pajamas, the clock beside his bed reads three am.

* * *

_IV.  
__In increments, I learn my bastard reality._

Breakfast the next day is difficult. His mother still has that little shake in her fingers, that excitement that she can't share. She's proud of Cooper, Blaine knows, proud in a way he's sure she'll never be proud of him.

She cooks bacon and eggs on the stove as he sits at the breakfast bar, cellphone in hand. Her hand steadies for a moment as she flips the egg, lip between her teeth and then it lands, yolk still whole and she smiles to herself.

She deals the food out onto two plates and hands one to Blaine and it's like the fire is going out. That electric charge that had filled her body fades as she catches the phone in his hand. She lets his plate fall to the table with a clatter.

'You've changed,' his mother says, eyeing him cautiously. 'What's changed with you, Blaine?'

He doesn't avoid her gaze, looks back at her and takes her in and he wonders how he could really be of her flesh and blood, part of her family. Her dark eyes and dark hair are like his own, as is her height, but there is nothing in the way she moves, the way she speaks, the words she asks, that reminds him of himself. Can he just not see the resemblance? Or has he changed too much to ever be like her again?

'Is it a moving day?' he returns softly, trying to keep the cold edge out of his voice.

'No.'

He doesn't smile. 'Nothing has changed.'

He never smiles anymore. Not around his family.

He only smiles when he is alone, with Kurt, on the other end of a phone line like a desperate artery to someone he's known longer than his whole life.

His mother sends him a wary frown, but turns her back, returns to her cooking. Likewise, Blaine turns his back and slips into his bedroom, into the safeness of reality and fantasy until Kurt arrives and everything is brighter again.

* * *

_V.  
__Oh hark, how little trusted I am! The bastard son of a bastard king!_


	6. I Worry (A Bit About You A Bit About Me)

**I Worry (A Bit About You, A Bit About Me)**

_Baby, I'm a poor man  
__Caught inside an affluent body.  
__I burn with the aches of my class  
__And strive desperately to remove myself from it._

Blaine doesn't like the fact that his mood is down in the gutter when Kurt arrives. He wanted to be happy, to be revelling in the fact that he'd have hours alone with Kurt, just the two of them, and they wouldn't be separated by miles of city. But his conversation with his mother has drawn him down and he sulks, pulling out coffee and sugar and cream as he waits for the knock on the apartment door.

It's soft when it does arrive and he hardly hears it, only happens to be moving towards the peephole to check and then he's opening the door and Kurt's standing there and he looks happy, smiling, but then he sees Blaine's face.

His expression drops, a stone rolling down hill and every other cliché that slips through Blaine's thoughts, but then he's picking it back up, piecing together the parts of his face that make it whole and plastering on a sympathetic smile.

'Are you okay, Blaine?'

He tries to smile, tries so hard, but it comes out as a grimace. 'Yeah.'

'What happened?'

'It's nothing.'

'No, something's gone wrong. You were okay last night, and now you're angry.'

His fingers curl into a fist and he holds his hand tight against his side so Kurt can't see. He doesn't want it to be like this. He doesn't want to share this part of his life, this anger at his mother, this _agony _he lives in. He shouldn't have invited him here. This is the wrong place for Kurt Hummel, with his bright blue eyes and artfully ruffled hair.

'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have invited you here, you don't want to be here, we should have gone out for lunch or something.'

Kurt's face frowns then, truly frowns, and he steps forward, tries to capture Blaine's arm but he's already twisting away.

'No,' he says softly, 'what's wrong?'

'Nothing!' And he doesn't mean it to sound so harsh, but he can hear the anger in his tone, the aftershock of pain and then Kurt is pulling away, like he did once before and Blaine wants to cling and not let go and grab the phone and just _talk _to him, talk where there's no expectation to be good, and not broken and not a boy who wishes he was anyone else's son but the one he is.

'Okay,' Kurt says slowly, and he's at the doorway, but he's not leaving. He eyes Blaine with a wary look. 'Can I sit down?'

Blaine shakes his head and tries to clear the fog. Manners, manners. He pulls out a chair and motions for Kurt to sit, but he's at the other side of the table by the time he gets there. The distances he had so longed to break down have formed around him again. He presses his hand into the kitchen counter and tries not to say out loud, _This is why I don't go to supermarkets._

But it's Kurt, he tells himself, taking a deep breath. 'I'm sorry.'

'No need.' He gives him a smile. A tight one, but it's still a smile.

'No, I really am. I shouldn't be like this. I'm not like this normally.' He grabs the coffee pot from the machine, pours the cups and mixes them with sugar and cream, not looking at Kurt. It's much easier to do the little things when he's not looking at Kurt.

'I'm glad you came,' he manages to say finally.

'I got the feeling that it was a bad time.'

'No!' It's out of his mouth before he even realises it. 'Now is a great time, actually. You're like my personal defuser.'

'Personal defuser?'

He smiles, pressing his lips together into a tight line that just curls at the corners. 'When I'm frustrated or upset, especially at my mom, you're great for making me feel like it doesn't really matter.' He looks up then, catches his eye and Kurt is watching him; he's watching him and waiting. 'I'm really sorry you have to deal with my crazy today. Today was supposed to be perfect.'

'Perfect?' He raises an eyebrow.

Blaine blushes, shrugs. 'Better than this, anyway.' He shuffles closer then as he places one cup in front of Kurt. He doesn't back away to the other side of the table but instead sits down next to him, places his hand in careful reach of Kurt. He's seen it like this in the movies, the deliberate movements and then Kurt will grab his hand and hold it and tell him it will work out for them, and that will be it. There'll be no more of this awkwardness.

But Kurt doesn't reach out to take his hand.

'What exactly do you want from me, Blaine?' he asks instead, slowly and softly.

'Huh?'

'I mean, I want to be here, with you, because I enjoy your company. But I don't want to be the guy who looks after you, Blaine. I'm not that guy.'

Blaine's heart falls, catches somewhere near his pelvis, a horrific drop from it's old place in his oesophagus. 'What? I don't-'

'It's fine at the moment, Blaine, but I've been in these kind of situations, I don't want to be drained. You're amazing, and a great person, but I need to look after me too.'

He really doesn't get it. That's the only thought in his mind. Kurt doesn't get it. Blaine lets his hand slowly slip from the table and back into his lap.

'I don't want you to look after me. I was looking after myself long before I met you.'

'Were you looking after yourself or were you just surviving?'

And that should make him angry, he knows. It should make him slam his fist against the table, grab his arm and make him _understand. _But that's what his father would have done and instead he places his hands in his lap, squeezes them together tightly.

'No,' he breathes, as steady as he can make it. 'You don't understand. I want you around, because you're a great person, and a great friend, and I like you. There's nothing more. I can survive on my own.'

'Okay,' Kurt says finally, and he catches Blaine's eye, reaches his hand out and lays it against Blaine's upper arm. The contact he'd been craving but far too late.

'You make my days happier,' Blaine says without prompting. 'You're someone I feel I can really trust. I want to spend time with you, not for my own selfish reasons but because I want to make you smile, and you happy, and I just want to be your friend, okay?'

He wants to say _more than friend. _He wants to tell him how far he would go, what he would do for them and their friendship, their relationship. But he holds his tongue and Kurt says nothing, but squeezes his arm gently.

'Friends is a great place to start.'

To Blaine, it seems like three steps backwards, nothing but a reconfirmation of something he already knew. But Kurt is smiling and maybe there's more to it than that, some secret purpose that currently eludes him.

Blaine sips his cup of coffee and feels like an emotional wreck.

* * *

_I worry a bit about you  
__And the ways in which you do not trust me,  
__The ways in which I cannot give you everything  
__Despite my desperate need to understand all of you._

The house seems impossibly silent once Kurt is gone. His eyes keep wandering, can't focus, and he stands in the middle of the kitchenette, hands by his sides. He doesn't move.

And then his mother is sliding her key card over the lock, banging her handbag down on the counter and smiling as she enters the kitchen. It fades from her face when she sees Blaine, falling into tired and lonely and all the looks Blaine remembers from every day of the past two years. She steps closer warily, grabs an individual bottle of wine from the fridge and pops the cork. A swig straight from the bottle.

'Are you okay, Blaine?' she asks, and maybe she thinks her voice is gentle, but all Blaine can see is her tired and disappointed eyes, how his insides broke when he saw that same disappointment and confusion in Kurt's.

'Is it a moving day?' he asks in so soft a voice that she almost misses it. It's an almost imperceptible shake of her head that delivers the reply. He heaves a sigh of relief.

The kitchen seems too stifling now, the wine bottle in her hand edging towards horizontal, towards liquor on the floor and the stench of it in his nostrils and he backs away, down the corridor. He can't speak, can't say anything, he can only remember the look on Kurt's face and the words, 'We'll be friends.'

His bed is hard and uncomfortable when he lands into it, nothing like it felt the night before.

* * *

_I worry a bit about me,  
__My incapacity to reach the adequate levels of  
__What is required in this,  
__This strange relationship._

_What do we call it?_


	7. (I Believe You When You Say)

**(I Believe You When You Say) We Could Be Friends**

_We implement the strategies of our own tortures.  
__We place the knives and bullets on the cold steel table,  
__yet the warmth in your blood and the warmth in mine are  
__the only requirements for my rejuvenation._

Movement is hard. Especially so when you place it in a phrase like "forward movement". Blaine knows it better than anyone, if he's allowed to be biased. He dwells too much on the past, and it's too easy to do, to slip into that in-between world of memory that stops you from things like forward movement.

But being friends is easy. It's easy in a way that he has always enjoyed. It's the same way in which he can call Kurt, and there is no expectation there except he should have something interesting to start the conversation, and that's only because of the precedent he's already set.

But he's used to being friends with Kurt where flirty undertones are allowed. Where he's allowed to think things could work out for them, and it's just a matter of drawing up his courage right, and that kind of friendship that isn't really friendship, just not-quite-romance. He's good at that.

He's not quite as good at pretending he's not in love with Kurt.

It's not to say that they're not still friends. Friends is everything they are now, and they haven't lost that. But not only is it everything, Blaine thinks with a heavy sigh that echoes around his skull, it's all. There's nothing else, and Kurt wanted it this way, so he's not going to argue, but couldn't it be better if they just kept needing each other? Was it so bad to need him so much?

It's been a month. A month since they decided it was better to go slow, to be friends, to "keep it platonic" as Kurt had so aptly put it. He shouldn't be bitter. There's no part of him that needs to be bitter, but there's that little corner somewhere near Blaine's appendix that can't help it. He tries to remind himself that Kurt's not going anywhere, that they still talk every night on the phone, that they still text and that Kurt still turns up at his house during lunchtimes on his free days to help him cook.

Blaine has become incredibly good at keeping his hands to himself. He shouldn't need to, he knows that, but it's something he can't quite help wanting, and something he must really help to not do. When they're in the same room, he occupies himself; he makes tea, or cooks a complex lunch, or even grabs the nearest pen and performs complex ink acrobatics. And each time, once Kurt is out the door, he tells himself in a breathless whisper, 'You're an idiot, you're an idiot, you're an idiot.'

Being friends with Kurt Hummel is incredibly easy. Being _just friends _is considerably less so.

Blaine's fingers pick out an easy little text message, something banal and basic that requires little mental effort but achieves the wanted resulted, a light hearted reply.

_You amuse me, Blaine :)_

_I think you'll find that was my goal_

_I have no doubt_

It's a simple passage of conversation, the same as it has always been, but it gnaws at Blaine's consciousness that it is also so very different.

_Horrible roommate decided today would be a great day to bring round slutty girlfriend and grind on the couch. I swear I've now seen most of her boob and I'm horrified._

_Oh God._

_Exactly._

He smiles at his screen, leans his head into his pillow and keeps his mind away from all the possibilities of what they could be if they weren't just friends.

_How long?_

_About an hour. I made the mistake of pretending I was asleep when they came in and now I can't get up without them realising I've been watching the whole time._

_You could say you've just woken up?_

_I'm still wearing my shoes. They're just covered by the blanket._

_… You're screwed._

_I know. I told you it was bad._

He laughs out loud at that, grins at his ceiling, and he can't lose this. He's so glad it's remained, the ability for Kurt to make him laugh, impossibly loud and unlike anyone else he knows. He leans into it and doesn't stop and he imagines, on the other end of the phone, connected by the letters pressed out by both their fingers, that Kurt's laughing too. Hidden beneath his blanket, trying not to make a sound, he'd be laughing those tiny hissing breaths.

_I'm not sure what I'm supposed to tell you, _he replies. _Maybe you just have to wait it out?_

_Maybe you can call the landline? Get them to stop?_

He doesn't get a chance to reply before the next message is coming through. _Nevermind, don't worry. I don't think they're going to stop even if the fire alarms go off._

He keeps his phone in his hand, doesn't let it move though his grip is loose, and uses his other hand to grip the pillow in position. He falls asleep like that.

It's easy to be friends with Kurt Hummel.

* * *

_You told me it would be simple,  
__yet we have fallen into the endless  
__game of give and take._

It seems to always be in the early evening when Cooper arrives in their kitchen. He comes with a flourish, seats him down on the table and naturally ignores Blaine. He directs his comments and questions instead to their mother, bites into pasta that she claims to have slaved over, though she really buzzed it in the microwave and stirred the sauce through the pasta in a serving bowl.

Blaine sits on the end breakfast stool and crosses his knees beneath himself.

'So you received our wedding invitations, yeah?'

Their mother smiles, a wide grin and waves the said invitations, positioned at the end of the counter and just in reach of her arms. There's one for both of them, Blaine and his mother, and each states a plus one. It had been an issue of much quiet debate on his mother's behalf, when she was talking to herself and didn't realise Blaine was listening. Who would she take if Blaine was not her reluctant plus one? He wanted to tell her to ask a guy, someone she was interested in, but it wasn't his place, and he kept to himself and only stared at the invitation and knew exactly who he was giving his plus one to.

It's only three weeks away, and it seems utterly too close, and Cooper has a million and one things to say, how Julia is freaking out because she's gained and lost lots of weight since her first fitting and her dress just isn't going to fit on the day, how the flower arranger disagrees with the floor planner and they can't decide whether Julia's aunt Louisa should be on a table with Uncle George or Uncle Henry.

It seems impossibly boring to Blaine. He presses his chin into his palm, eats pasta and holds his phone on his lap in easy view. There are no messages, but Kurt has evening classes on Tuesday's, and Blaine didn't expect to hear from him. But he just can't seem to put his phone away.

'So who are you bringing?' Cooper asks their mother, an amused lilt to his voice. She blushes a deep red, curls her arms around herself.

'Not sure yet.'

'Yeah, you are.'

'No.' She shakes her head with a tiny smile.

'Yeah.' There's a length to the word, drawn out and complicated, and Cooper leans back on his stool, hooks his feet into the metal rest. 'You are.'

'It's no one.'

'It's someone. A great big hunk of someone?'

Another deep flush.

'It's none of your business.'

Cooper laughs. 'I'm your son, and it's my wedding. It's all of my business!'

She stammers, runs her fingers along her chin and does everything she can to avoid answering his questions. But he is demanding, as he has always seemed to be, and like always, their mother caves beneath his penetrating gaze. Blaine watches in disgust.

'There's someone,' she says, and she sounds like she's sixteen and he should be happy for her, he should. God knows he's not a fan of his own late father. She should be moving on and finding something else.

But it's also his mother. She is stern and unforgiving to Blaine, considerate and loving to Cooper, and she should not be giggling about a man she's known for hardly any time.

'Where did you two meet?'

She grins. 'The project I'm working on. He's head liaison from the company.'

'Nice.' Cooper's smile is big and broad and he holds out a fist, closed and ready to be bumped. Their mother mimics the action, though Blaine can tell she doesn't quite know what it means.

And then it's over just like that, and they're talking about something different, and Blaine wonders for a short moment why it was that conversation, that small piece of information that his mother is interested in someone else, that really drew his attention.

He presses his fingers into his phone, not pressing any buttons, just feeling the pressure of it against his leg. Again and again and again, and then he's saying it. He should have mentioned it earlier, when the conversation was still centered on plus ones, but he puts that fact aside and just says it.

'I'm okay to invite whoever I want, right?'

Cooper looks at him for a moment as if he's mad. 'I guess so, kiddo. Unless, you know, you've found a stalker who's keen to tag along. I don't think Jules would appreciate that too much.'

He doesn't like the way he said it, that cynical _kiddo, _but he puts that aside. The important bit is, he can invite whomever he wants.

'Have you got someone in mind?' Cooper asks.

'Uh.' And how does Blaine respond to that. _The love of my life, if only we weren't "just friends". _'Yeah.'

'Oh? Spill.'

He tries to keep most of it to himself, reveal as few facts as possible. 'Just a guy I met at the supermarket.'

'Just a guy?' And that same persuasive tone that before was targeting their mother is now on Blaine, and he makes the executive decision to reveal some facts in order to conceal others. Anyway, Cooper isn't blind and when he sees him at the wedding, he'll know Blaine's feelings anyway. Or at least think he does.

'I like him.'

'Oh.' His brother is at a loss for words momentarily, but he picks himself up quickly, wipes a hand on his jeans. 'Good for you, squirt.'

And that's it. There's no ticket parade, no bells and whistles, just Cooper spinning back in his chair to face their mother and he's going on again, back off the topic of plus ones and now onto the perfect wedding cake and what it requires to be a success. Blaine takes this opportunity to place his spoon and fork on the same side of his pasta bowl, fork inside spoon, and then slip out of the room. He's barely in the corridor when he dials Kurt's number, but he's in his bedroom when he picks up.

'Hi, Blaine.'

'Hey, I have a question for you.'

'Shoot.'

He pauses, rolls his tongue around his mouth and figures out how to word it, which verb to put in front of which noun and which preposition. Finally, he says, all in a rush, 'My brother is getting married in three weeks and I get to bring a plus one would you like to come?'

Kurt laughs and Blaine can imagine his smile. 'Of course I will. Send me the details and I'll be there. I'll even wear my best suit.' He pauses for a moment, then says, voice slightly lower, 'It is in New York, right? You're not hijacking me and dragging me cross country?'

It's Blaine's turn to laugh. 'No, New York. Well, Manhattan.'

'Close enough.'

He smiles, sits back onto his mattress and hooks his feet up to sit cross legged. 'So you'll come.'

'Of course I'll come. How could I pass up the opportunity to laugh at brides who are panicking about the state of their dress and hair when on the other side of the room, someone's long lost uncle is getting drunk and hitting on the maid of honour?'

'Sounds exactly like my family.' He runs his thumb along the edge of his sneaker, catches the little tag of plastic that has pulled its way apart from the sole. 'But Julia's pretty nice normally, so hopefully she's not a bridezilla or anything.'

'Dammit,' Kurt laughs, 'they're always the fun ones.'

'Well then, we'll just have to sit somewhere and laugh at my extended family, who I can assure you, can fully replicate the Battle of Waterloo without anyone mentioning anything more than, "I heard Genevieve was moving to Kentucky."'

'Who's Genevieve and what does she moving to Kentucky have anything to do with the Battle of Waterloo?'

Blaine grins. 'Genevieve's a very French name.'

* * *

_Trust me.  
__Trust me with everything  
__like I have always believed in you.  
__Follow me into the impossibilities of the future._


	8. The Intimacy Given By The Lips

**The Intimacy Given By The Lips**

_There is a provision provided by discretion.  
__It distances us, but allows us to breathe,  
__allows the others around us to keep their silence._

They arrive at the ceremony just in time, only a few minutes before Julia walks in. They'd planned to be early, to talk to Cooper beforehand, but at the last moment, his mother's date had called saying he'd need an extra fifteen minutes and suddenly those minutes extended into half an hour, and they were most definitely late. They had seats in the first two rows of chairs, on the left, and Blaine slid into the second, pulling Kurt behind him by the cuff of his shirt. His mother sat in the front row, with her date.

He wasn't quite what Blaine had been expecting. He'd thought of all kinds of combinations; designer suit with bleach blond hair, gravelly brown hair with too much to say. But he hadn't made up his mind when they arrived at his apartment, a condo on the Upper East Side. He was rich, that much Blaine was certain of, and he had a ridiculous name, Gabriel Torres.

But he gave him a wide smile when they arrived, gave the same to Kurt who had met them at the hotel, and kissed his mother politely on the cheek. He didn't say much to either of them, instead whispered something into Blaine's moms ear that made her laugh, and then they were gone, Gabriel sitting in the back seat of the taxi with Blaine and Kurt, but no conversation being made.

And now they're here, watching as Julia walks down the aisle, as Cooper's easy smile moves off his face and he falls into a look of stunned awe. She's beautiful, Blaine has to admit, and the dress she's chosen, although purchased in such short notice, flatters every inch of her body. Kurt nudges Blaine in the knee lightly, mouths _I love her dress _before turning back to watch her walk.

They say the words, Cooper's hand never leaving Julia's. It seems complicated to Blaine, too much to remember, and he sees the panic in his brother's eyes when he messes up a line, says not quite the right thing, but Julia doesn't notice, or if she does, she doesn't care. It's not mentioned, and Blaine wouldn't have known but for that look.

And then it's over, and Julia and Cooper are out the door and their mother and Gabriel are close behind. Blaine lags back, doesn't fight to keep his spot in the procession. He grips Kurt's arm and holds on like a lifeline as people swarm around them and out the door.

'She's so beautiful,' Kurt says as they wander through the crowd, and then they're out in the sunshine, and Blaine wants to repeat the words, change the _she _to a _you're._

'I thought you weren't interested in girls,' he jokes quietly instead, presses an elbow lightly into Kurt's side.

'I can admire their inherent beauty, I'd just prefer to admire the beauty of attractive men,' he returns in a murmur.

They slip into the taxi that slides into place in front of them. A woman and her son open the door after them, but both Kurt and Blaine are in the back seat and she closes the door quickly, unwilling to place her child beside them. Instead, they leave the ceremony alone.

Blaine longs to press his fingers into Kurt's to hold his hand, but he remembers their agreement, doesn't move his muscles an inch. He leans into the leather, smiles at Kurt's joke and tries not to hold his breath.

* * *

_I do not admire your lingering fingers  
__when they do not linger long enough  
__and I yearn for something more  
__which you will not accredit to me._

It seems like all Blaine can feel is the burn in the back of his throat, that burn of vodka spiked punch and the headiness of too much too much too much. Kurt's hands are there, pressing against his sides, leaning into him like it's the easiest thing in the world as they dance, and Blaine doesn't get it, how Kurt can just press his fingers into Blaine's skin and not back away all night. He can hardly breathe from it, deep gasping breaths that he tries to conceal when he remembers where they are, what they're supposed to be doing, that he's the groom's brother, part of a family in which being gay is generally not an accepted option.

And here Kurt is, pressing his face into Blaine's neck and kissing tiny kisses up his skin. He breathes in, raises his head high and doesn't let go where his arms twine around Kurt's back as they dance. Julia's grandmother is watching him from her place at the table, eyebrows raised, but when he catches her eye, she turns away, face flushed. No one can even bear to acknowledge them. Blaine squeezes tighter.

'How much have you drunk?' Kurt whispers. His mouth is so close to Blaine's ear and he can feel the movement of breath across his skin, his heart beating faster and he returns, trying to keep his voice steady, 'Only a few glasses of punch.'

A hum against his throat, lips pressed tight there, kissing him, and then, 'Me too.'

There's voices behind them, moving across the dance floor, but when Blaine spins them in a slow circle, they've already moved away. The space in which they stand is surrounded by a wide berth of floor, and he tries not to question it, tries not to question why no one has said a single word to him all day except for the serving staff's polite 'Here you are, sir,' and his mother's tight welcome. He doesn't question the way Kurt doesn't seem to notice, too absorbed in him, from the talking to touching and now dancing and lips and skin and the only thing Blaine can think is, _He's only ever kissed me on the neck and cheeks._

And why is he thinking that? He doesn't even know. His brain is so intoxicated already, and this is good, good _good _because he's been thinking about this forever, being close to Kurt, touch and feel and the smell of him and the smile that he can feel against his skin.

He sighs, small and quiet, but immediately Kurt looks back, catches his eye and his eyebrows are furrowed. 'What's wrong?'

'Nothing,' he shakes his head.

'You sighed.'

'No, I didn't.'

'Don't you want me to kiss you?' Small and hushed, but his face is hurt, so hurt.

'No!' Blaine tightens his grip, doesn't let go. 'Of course not, I love-' He stops, catches his breath as he stares at the ceiling and then eyes back to Kurt. 'I love it.'

'Then what is it?' The defensiveness hasn't left him, instead building behind his eyes, in the strain of his jaw.

'I just-' How does he say it? How does he answer the question of _why are you unhappy _when the most important parts of him are so so happy, the parts Kurt really is worried about, and there's only that one niggling doubt. Just one, just one.

'Why don't you ever kiss me on the lips?' he asks, and then he shuts his mouth quickly, pressing his lips together tightly.

'What do you mean?' The shadows have fallen quickly and Kurt's face is smooth and clear once more, only curiosity building behind there and it makes Blaine's heart fall because it means he's not interested, that there's no way he'd want him, not if he was the most put together individual on the planet.

'You've kissed me a lot tonight,' he says, slowly and deliberately, despite the fact that every pore in his body is telling him to give up, to turn away. 'But never on the-'

And then Kurt's hands are on his cheeks pulling him closer, lips pressed against lips, tight and hot and Blaine heart is pounding in his chest and his hands are tightening around Kurt's body, digging into his shirt, holding on as if it's the only ability left to him. _Kurt is kissing him._

And then he's pulling away and Blaine's breath is heavy in his lungs and he can't move can't think and then-

'Is that better?'

Blaine lets out a half sigh and can't help but laugh, leaning his forehead into Kurt's. 'Thank you,' he whispers, kissing him in return gently, a single peck. 'Thank you.'

Kurt winds his hands into Blaine's hair and smiles. 'I think I've been wanting to do that all night. I didn't know what your mother would think.'

'I don't give a damn what my mother would think.'

Kurt grins. 'I know.'

* * *

_Let your lips press against mine, dear,  
__like I am longing for you to do.  
__Let me hold your hand and make you home  
__and not in this way your discretion is describing._


	9. Pause

**Pause**

_You carry me into the moment._

Hands tangle into hair, shirts, press against skin. The small dorm room feels heady, too hot, and Kurt breathes a sigh of relief against Blaine's lips that his roommate is out. The alcohol on his breath is strong, but he can't taste it and leans in, closer and closer. He wants to feel everything, put his hands on every place of Blaine's body and make him moan with it. It's all that he can think as he presses him against the bed, pushes him down.

They find a rhythm against each other quickly, and although there's been no time to remove shirts, let alone anything else, their bodies press together, again and again in patterns that make Blaine gasp against the skin of Kurt's neck. His hands skim down against his sides, feeling the curve of his muscle and hips, catch on the waistband of his jeans and hook through the beltloops.

He can feel the thrum of it in the air, the energy of it, and he'd never guessed that he'd feel like this when he's not quite eighteen and his skin is covered in goosebumps and heat. He digs his fingers in deeper, pulls Kurt closer at the same time that he pushes up towards him and their hips are connecting in a way that he'd only ever imagined, in his room alone.

'Kurt,' he breathes huskily. It's like a press to his nerves, the sound of his own voice saying Kurt's name, and he can't get close enough, he's still too far away, too far, too far. There's too much gap between them, just too much, and his hand slips lower, cupping Kurt at the top of his thigh and then Kurt's hands are sliding down as well, reaching the button of his jeans and opening it with perfect, slow precision.

'Stop.' He hardly feels the air brushing his lips. He doesn't know he's saying it 'til it's out there and said, and Kurt's eyes are far too wide, his hands stilled with shock.

'What?'

'Please,' Blaine says slowly, working it out in his mind. 'I need you to stop.'

Kurt's hands move away from here, wrap around his own waist and the distance between them is much too far, an awkward presence between their bodies. 'What's wrong?' he asks as his eyes turn away from Blaine, his whole demeanour turned away from Blaine.

'Nothing.' But it's a lie: everything is wrong. His hands are shaking and he so desperately wants to kiss him and the alcohol is burning in his gut, but he can't do this. He can't give this up to one night of bliss. Not when they were nothing more than friends just an hour ago.

'Bullshit,' Kurt whispers.

Blaine rolls his lips into his mouth, gnaws on it lightly. 'You're my best friend,' he finally says.

'I know.'

'I think I've liked you for as long as I can remember.'

'I know.'

'I've wanted to kiss you for so long.'

'I know.'

He runs a hand roughly through his hair, through the air around his as if he could push away this awkward boundary through nothing but sheer force. 'I don't want it to be like this, not when we don't really know what being together is like.'

_Being together. _When he says it out loud, it seems absolutely perfect. Being together. The two of them, building together, depending on each other. He wants nothing else. Not even this, this euphoric connection of skin and skin.

'I don't want you to be a one night stand,' he finally breathes out and Kurt leans forward, runs a tentative hand along his arm. He still can't meet his gaze, his eyes instead captured by the bed beneath them, the crinkled pattern of the coverlet.

'Me neither.'

'I want you to be everything to me. You _are _everything to me.' And God, it seems so cliched but he can't help saying it, can't help leaning forward and pressing their foreheads together. 'Please.'

'I want to give you everything.' And his eyes are sliding up, catching with Blaine's, and the fire behind them is still there, burning strong and bright, but it's not the same. There's no lust, only understanding and wanting. Blaine could get lost in those eyes. 'If I can have you.'

'You have me.' He presses his hand into his chest, let's Kurt's fingers curl around it, over his heart. 'You have all of me.'

They don't sleep together that night. Blaine goes home just after midnight, crawling into his own bed and wishing he had Kurt there, just to lean against. But his heart is lighter. He can remember the soft kiss of Kurt's lips, the basic knowledge behind them that this is what they are. Blaine Anderson and Kurt Hummel are no longer their own person; they're Kurt-and-Blaine, something more than two individuals living their own lives. They are now interconnected in ways Blaine had only ever hoped for. He could never even imagine it before: it was hidden too deep behind the burn of pain that echoed in the back of his skull, the grip of his father's hand hooked into his shirt.

It's happening. He knows that now. They may have agreed to go slow, painfully slow, but they're _going. _They're on common ground, and he doesn't want to be anywhere else.

He presses his toes into the mattress, cannot contain his grin.

* * *

_You have given me reason to pause._


	10. Would You Let Me Stay

**Would You Let Me Stay**

_If I was to leave today, would you let me stay,  
__and take over your living room with my bags and belongings?  
__I would pay my fair share of the rent and food and other bills  
__and I could promise you to leave by a certain date._

'I was worried about you last night,' his mother says when he stumbles out of bed for breakfast. She's normally out of the house by this time, working and getting things done like she always seems to do, but today, she has her head propped up on her hands, watching him with a baleful expression that does not befit the mood he was sure she had last night at the wedding.

'You didn't need to be.'

'You left without talking to me, or anyone for that matter. I had no idea where you were, when you'd be back.'

Blaine shakes his head, running a hand lightly through his hair. 'I was at Kurt's.'

'I thought as much.' Her lips purse into a thin line, but he is too occupied in drawing milk and strawberries from the fridge to notice. 'Did you have sex with him?'

He almost drops the carton of milk. 'No!' His face is flushed with the memory of it, the heat sparking across his body and the touch of their skin. But he's not lying so he doesn't back down, even when she raises one perfect eyebrow.

'No, mom, we really didn't.'

She shakes her head lightly, and he knows she doesn't believe him, but she puts it aside, takes the strawberries from him and begins slicing off the ends. He watches her for a moment, amazed, but then brings himself together, grabs a clean bowl from the cabinet and fills it with cereal and milk.

She's almost finished when she says, not even looking up, 'You'll have to pack today.'

The spoon he was using for his sugar clatters into the bowl before he has a chance to pick it up again. 'What?' Blaine asks.

'You heard me. We're moving to LA. You have to pack your things today.'

'Today?'

'Yes, today. I've booked our flight for Monday.'

'Monday.' He repeats her words blindly, leans against the counter for support. He feels like a complete cliche, the dumbstruck boy who can do nothing but stare and parrot, but his heart has fallen into his gut, that momentary spark of electricity in his knees gone, leaving nothing behind but bone and muscle that no longer wants to support his weight.

'I have to go out now, but you'll be fine to pack, right?'

'Monday.'

'It's a moving day, Blaine. You knew this was com-'

'But what about Gabriel?'

'We broke up.' The tone in her voice is sad, tinged with something like regret, but he doesn't dwell on it.

'What did he do? Did he hit you, like dad hit me?'

She winces then, takes a step back from Blaine, but he's not backing down.

'I can't go.' He says it bluntly, there is no other knowledge except that fact.

'Of course you can. It's as easy as getting on the plane. You don't have the flu, and you're most definitely not pregnant.' She says the words, an echo of a joke, but there is no laugh behind them. 'You can fly.'

He shakes his head, leans closer into the island. 'You don't get it, mom. I _can't go. _I can't leave him.'

'You haven't slept with him.'

'Who cares! Did you sleep with your high school sweetheart before you left him? Because he still matters to you!'

That stings, cuts deep into the already open wounds. Her lips turn down, eyebrows furrowed and she turns away from Blaine, focusing instead on dumping his strawberries into the bowl. She slams down the knife and chopping board on the draining rack of the sink. 'You're going to be packed by the time I get home, Blaine,' she says, her voice falsely calm. And then she's picking up her purse and jacket and walking out the door.

He leans against the island, takes a deep breath. He can't leave. He can't he can't he can't. He can't leave New York when things just started working out, when him and Kurt are making things _work. _He wants to be in love, and how can he do that on the opposite side of the country.

He stares around the apartment, at the place he'd tentatively called home since they'd first moved here six months ago. She wouldn't leave without him. If he left the house till Monday, she wouldn't pack and then he'd be able to delay the whole thing. She might even agree to stay.

It's childish, irrational, but Blaine grabs his wallet and his door key and runs away.

Kurt's roommate is gone for the weekend, or so he says as he calls ahead. 'You can stay with me, he won't be here.'

'Are you sure I'm not intruding? I just really want to spend time with you right now.'

'Hey,' Kurt laughs, 'me too.'

But Blaine doesn't say he's scared it might be their last weekend together, that he's trying to avoid the inevitable move. He doesn't mention the move at all.

And Kurt accepts him into his rooms with a kiss and a hug and a slice of chocolate cake, freshly baked.

He stays there all weekend.

* * *

_If I was to leave today, would you let me in  
__when I knock on your door in the middle of the night  
__desperate for a place to call home and arms to fall into.  
__Would you mind if I made your couch my bed?_


	11. What It Feels To Be Alone

**What It Feels To Be Alone**

_The ones who said they loved me have deserted me  
__and you who I truly love are the only thing I have left._

He sleeps in as long as he can on Monday morning. He rolls over again and again, let's Kurt capture his hand and squeeze in his sleep and pretends he doesn't hear Kurt's alarm. He doesn't want to leave, doesn't want to face the world outside this room. The peace of Kurt's arms and breath on the back of his neck is too hard to give up.

But Kurt has class, and slowly they move apart. Blaine dresses slowly, lingers on every movement and when Kurt walks out the door in a rush for his class, he takes an extra moment to kiss him gently, one more time.

He walks home, taking his time to stare at the street around him. He likes New York, he realises as he walks. He likes it more than he's liked any other place they've stayed. He should have got out sooner, he thinks; experienced more of it.

He slips through the glass double doors of the hotel and steps towards the elevator.

'Sir?'

The concierge is stopping him, stepping over to block his way. 'Sir, please come with me.'

'I'm just going home. Is there something wrong?'

The man eyes him, curiosity and pity mingling behind his expression. Blaine doesn't understand the look, but it scares him, more than he wants to admit.

'Your room has been cleared, sir,' the man says gently.

'What do you mean, cleared?'

'Your mother had everything moved out yesterday. She left this for you.' He reaches behind the desk, draws out an envelope and then he's passing it to Blaine with a casual air that does not reflect their relationship in the least. Blaine snatches it and steps away, turning his head before breaking the seal of the envelope.

Inside is a plane ticket, an address and a hundred dollar bill.

Anger settles in his gut, roiling and twisting and where before he ran to Kurt's it was only a dull pain. He feels burning, as if his whole body has been doused in fire.

The concierge is still watching him, but he does nothing, turns away calmly towards the door and doesn't let his face crumple till his out the door and three buildings down the block. And then he is crumbling, losing it, throwing the envelope and it's contents into the closest steel trash can. He only remembers at the last moment the hundred dollar bill and snatches back the envelope from where it has caught on the lip, drawing out the cash before pushing the rest back into the trash. He pushes the note into his pocket.

Kurt. He has to go back and see Kurt. He'll be welcome there. He can't leave for LA, not now, not like this. He digs his feet into the concrete and runs, tries to let the adrenalin dissolve the anger in his veins.

When the apartment comes into view, he raises his pace. He sprints up the steps, knocks on the door, and even though he knows Kurt shouldn't be back yet, he's at class, he still holds his breath as he knocks on the door.

He ends up sitting with his back against the door, leaning his head into the heavy wood and shifting up every few minutes as the smooth rubber on the bottom of his sneakers slide him across the tiled floor of the corridor.

It's almost an hour later when Kurt eventually arrives home, eyes wide when he sees Blaine sitting there. 'What's wrong?' he asks.

He doesn't know how to reply. He shakes his head, hits it once against the door and Kurt's there, holding the sides of his face in his soft hands.

'What's wrong, Blaine?'

'Mom's left.' He says it in a whisper, barely loud enough for Kurt to hear, but he does, and his eyes are wide. 'She left, and she took everything, and she left me a plane ticket but I couldn't take it, I threw it in the trash.'

'Oh my God, Blaine.' He slips his hands beneath his armpits, lifts him up and wraps his arms around his shoulders. 'You'll be okay. You'll find a place to stay, and once you've finished your schoolwork, I'll help you apply for colleges and everything will be fine, okay?'

But he doesn't say, _stay with me. _Not even, _just for tonight. _He holds him tight, kisses his ear and shoulder, but doesn't give him that offer. He feels so horrible to beg for it.

'Kurt, please can I- Can I stay here?'

He pulls away, and Blaine feels his eyes on his face, searching him. 'You know you can't.'

'I stayed here all weekend,' he says softly. There is no fight in him.

'While my roommate was away, but he gets back this afternoon, and I wasn't even supposed to have you here. If anyone finds out, I could be ejected.'

'But-' Blaine tries to speak, but Kurt is shaking his head, sad and solemn. 'Why don't you ask Cooper if you can stay with him? His landlord won't have any issues, not like the college supervisors.'

Kurt's hands are slipping to his sides, away from Blaine, taking their comfort with them, and when he's all the way back, he bites his lip in pity, the same pity Blaine saw in the eyes of the concierge.

'Don't worry about it,' he says. There is no fight, but there is anger, and he turns away from Kurt, away from his soft fingers and steps down the corridor, deceptively slow, deceptively calm. Once he turns the corner and enters the stairwell, he slams his fist into the wall. He doesn't turn around, but Kurt is not coming after him, there are no footsteps.

* * *

_This ticket in my hand which I cannot stomach  
__and the burn of ache in my chest  
__are enough to render me speechless.  
__You do not need to add to the cause._


	12. Brother

**Brother**

_You are the epitome of my genes and childhood,  
__a combination of my mother and father of whom I should have been the same.  
__Yet I cannot call you brother._

Cooper had never been good at making sure Blaine was safe. He had tried his hardest of course, from the moment Blaine was born, but it was easier when he was little, when the only things to protect him from was the big dog next door and strangers. Mother always said never talk to strangers.

But when Blaine grew up, and Cooper too, it wasn't so easy. How do you protect your brother from your own family, from himself?

Blaine had never blamed Cooper, never questioned why he never stood up. There was no rule book for being a brother, no code of conduct that Blaine had ever been given. Perhaps this was how families were.

It was just before their father died when Blaine left home. He had reached the right age, considered himself too mature to stay in the small bedroom which had been his since birth. He was going to live with his friends, closer into the city and get drunk every night. He was old enough. He was allowed to.

Blaine was helping him move his things into boxes when their dad came home, bursting through the door already angry. Somebody had said the wrong thing at work and ruined a deal and now he would have to mitigate his losses elsewhere.

He could mitigate his losses elsewhere, but his anger was always brought home with him.

Blaine considered running, hiding in his room, but his father was already there, in the living room, standing over him as he tried to sort out Cooper's CDs and DVDs into takes and keeps.

'What are you doing, Blaine?' he asked, gruff, annoyed.

'I'm helping Cooper pack.'

'Cooper can bloody well pack on his own. Get out of my way.'

He couldn't move, there was nowhere to go. He was in the corner already, curled between the bookshelf that stood as storage space for the games and movies, and their mother's china cabinet.

'Move!'

He tried crawling past his father's legs, slipping away between them, but his hand was reaching out, grabbing him by the material of his shirt and hoisting him up. In the doorway, Cooper was standing, but he wasn't moving.

'Get out of my way!'

The slam of the wall against his back made him hiss from the pain, but he didn't cry. Cooper didn't cry. Cooper did nothing. He stood there and did nothing and watched as Blaine did nothing too.

* * *

Cooper's place is far enough away that the walk is uncomfortable, but Blaine doesn't raise his hand for a cab. He can't bear to sit inside that small space with a man he doesn't know who will ask no questions, but will silently judge him from the back seat for every moment he let's his face collapse into anger. Instead, he walks.

He has nothing but the money in his wallet and his phone. All his belongings are on the way to LA, expressed with his mother's things. He wants to curse her and scream and tell her how unfair it all is, but he's done all that already, and instead he just walks and tries not to think about Kurt.

When he closes his eyes, he can see his face, burning on his retinas. That disappointment, that look of _I can't help you_ when Blaine knows he can. But he doesn't want to think about that. He needs to be prepared, but he feels desperate. If Cooper doesn't let him in, there is no one else in this city that he knows, and he doesn't have enough money to buy a room. He's seen what the streets of New York City are like after dark, and he doesn't want to be there.

He makes it to Cooper's just before dinner time. He knocks on the door, waits, and shifts his weight from foot to foot. It's Julia who answers the door, of course, the perfect wife, and she gives Blaine a bright smile. 'Hey,' she says lightly, but she doesn't notice his expression. 'I'll just get Cooper, one second.'

She doesn't invite him in, but she doesn't turn him away either, nor close the door. She leans out of the hall, calls for his brother.

Cooper comes loping up to the doorway with a wide smile. 'Hey, bud-' But he sees Blaine's face, and he notices. 'What's wrong?'

He tries to keep his voice steady, not betray his fear, but he hears the break as he says, 'Mom's gone. Can I stay with you?'

'Why didn't you go with her?' Cooper asks, wraps his arm around Julia's waist as if to protect her from an enemy, from Blaine.

'I didn't think she'd actually leave. I was at Kurt's.'

'Why don't you go back to Kurt's?'

He should have expected it, really. Cooper has never been the best brother to Blaine, never looked after him when he needed it. He'd always let their father scream and yell and hit, and he never did a thing. Blaine had considered him a coward, had even told himself he would be better, now that father was gone.

'I can't. He could get fined for having me in his dorm.'

Cooper frowns, tightens his hold on his wife. 'We don't have space for you here, Blaine.'

'Well, where am I supposed to go?' The anger is building now, the same anger that has been building since she left, since Kurt turned him away. He tries not to let it get to him, as he has been trying all day, but if anyone would take him in, it should be Cooper. And it's not.

'You'll find somewhere.'

'No, I won't. I don't know anyone, I have no money.'

'There's cheap places on the other side of-'

He doesn't have a chance to finish his sentence before Blaine's fist is colliding with his jaw. There's an audible crack, and Cooper lets out a grunt, but there is no blood and he rubs the red skin as Blaine shakes his sore fist. Julia simply stares.

'Get out.'

'Where am I going to go?' Blaine asks. 'Tell me where the fuck I'm supposed to go.' He doesn't swear, Blaine never swears, but he can't hold it in and he doesn't regret it. Julia blanches. She has never seen him like this, but then again, she hasn't seen him much at all.

'I don't care, Blaine, but get out.' It's not palpable, but Blaine knows the anger is there. Julia stands still, but Cooper is moving towards the door, closing it in Blaine's face and he has nowhere to go, and not even his brother will take him, but what can he do now.

He considers banging his fist against the door, make them let him stay, but he doesn't. He turns away and back out onto the street and looks through his wallet. Enough for dinner and a train ticket, if he uses his state student ID.

His phone in his pocket is buzzing, and he checks it. Kurt's number. He can't answer, not after this. Blaine presses the reject button, then forms a text, asking his mother for directions once he reaches LA.

He is already on the train when she replies.

* * *

_I have nothing but the clothes upon my back  
__as I leave for the train  
__cast out of my own city, and my own life.  
__Who will love me now, brother?_


	13. Introduction To Change

**Introduction to Change**

_The sun blossoms over the horizon  
__when I am introduced to change.  
__It glimmers over the New York horizon  
__like a vision from my dream.  
__It was against my better judgement,  
__and against my better judgement I fell for it._

LA doesn't feel the same as New York. It's subtle, and it digs beneath his skin, gets into his brain and he has already made it out of the station and halfway to the apartment per the directions his mother sent him when he identifies it. It is not _homely. _For all the talk of New York City being the place that hardens you, he feels at home there. In Los Angeles, he feels rushed and hurried, and although there's tourists - so many tourists - the locals seem set in their own business and their ways. He does not belong here.

He can't say his mother is happy to see him. She purses her lips, shakes her head at his days' old clothing and his lack of belongings. She shrugs her shoulder behind her, at the already utilised kitchen and towards the room that has been allocated as his.

'You're in there,' she says softly, but there is a hardness to the words.

'Thanks,' he replies. He says nothing else. He doesn't know how to talk to her anymore, not properly. Not without the strain of formality that has taken over their phone calls and text messages and now, clearly, their life.

'You're getting behind on your schoolwork, Blaine.'

'I haven't had a chance to work on anything since last week.'

Her hands on her hips, her eyebrows curled into a frown. 'It's been longer than a week.'

'I've been sending things in. I've been ahead for a long time.'

'We have standards, Blaine, and you've been slipping.'

He says, 'Okay,' and steps past her, careful to keep his body from grazing hers. He can't speak with her, not now.

There had been time for the anger to ease during the long train ride, for him to close his eyes tight and lean against the leather seat and pretend he's living a different life. This different life is full of books, the classics that he always meant to read but never got around to. There's music, old records that he gets to play at his leisure, with their crackling sound but impossible flavour. Ice cream that never melts, packets of crisps that never run out. It is a ridiculous world, an impossible word, but he longs for it. There, he was not angry, there was no one there to hurt him. The raw skin on his knuckles was soothed to a gentle pulse, the turning in his gut only motion sickness. There was no pain. There was no hurt.

But his mother is here now, and there are no false realities.

His stuff is in boxes, piled up on the plain hotel bed. When he pulls off the packing tape, he can see that it is thrown in haphazardly, photo frames on top of books, with their covers bent at wrong angles. He takes out the pictures, those of him with Kurt, and with Cooper, and drops them on the floor, kicking them beneath the bed. His books he carefully returns to their original position, piling them up on the edge of the plain hardwood desk.

His book of poetry is right at the bottom, the chrome clasp undone and the page spread open. He picks it up, gingerly, closes it with care. He doesn't want to look at the words, but he can't see them damaged either, so he positions it pride of place, on his bedside table.

Once the boxes are clear, he pushes them out into the corridor. The bed has the plain coverings of the hotel, with its stiff sheets and blankets. It's uncomfortable to sit on, but when he leans back, lays into it, it's not so bad.

His cell is ringing. He can't hear it, the volume is turned down low, but it's vibrating in his pocket. He doesn't want to reach down and grab it. There are only three people it could possibly be: one is in the apartment with him, and he doesn't want to talk to any of them.

He slides it out of his pocket, checks the caller ID. Kurt. He knew it would be. He had been calling all through the train ride, until Blaine came to the point of rejecting the call, so he didn't have to watch it vibrate, on and on and on. He presses that button now, tosses the phone across the room until it hits the wall. The thick hotel paint shows no mark.

Another thing about this city, he determines. It has no spark. There is no glow, no warm feeling. He presses his head into the pillow and feels cold.

'Dinner!'

He slips off the bed, picks up his cell and shoves it back into his pocket before stepping out into the corridor. If he has to live with her for the next however long, he can at least try to make it pleasant.

* * *

_The LA air is cold and stifling, somehow.  
__It doesn't burn in my throat like whiskey,  
__doesn't make the world feel warm and heady.  
__It sickens me, this city,  
__where I am prompted to forget  
__my introduction to change._


	14. Hail! Child, You Are Disowned!

**Hail! Child, You Are Disowned!**

_There is a perceptible difference in the world now from what it once was.  
__You  
__tore away my goodness  
__ripped out my beating heart  
__and left me a shallow, hollow  
__very empty shell._

'Why did we have to move?' he asks. It's simply a question, he reassures himself. He says it calmly, with no emotion, and he hopes she will do the same, but she is already frowning and watching him. He can't tell anymore if her expression is concern or anger. They intertwine so often.

'I've told you.'

'I understand the job is here, but why does the job have to be here? We didn't move before Dad died.'

A tight press of her lips before she replies, 'Your father was away a lot. When he died I had to take over and bring you with me.'

'No, you didn't. Cooper was still at home. You could have left us for your trips, we would have been fine.'

'I couldn't afford the flight costs, okay, Blaine?'

'Why are you making excuses?' He knew the calm was going, seeping right out of his fingers as the conversation progressed, but he couldn't turn back now. 'You know there's no reason other than you were selfish! You wanted what was best for you, not us! You didn't consider us at all when you were making the decision, and once it was done, we were like army brats, pulled from city to city and you didn't even care about what it would do to us. You saw how quickly Cooper was out of here. He didn't want to live this stupid nomadic lifestyle. No one wants to live it, mom!'

She sits in shock. The dinner they had been eaten sits untouched before her, her hand halfway towards her fork. He can't tell if it is his anger she is shocked at, or his accusation.

'Are you seriously that naive, Blaine?'

He blinks once, shakes his head.

His mother frowns, presses her lips together in that way she has. 'Maybe your father was right.' Her eyes are cold and dark and with those words, Blaine knows that he's lost her. He may have to stay here for the rest of the year until he could move away for college, but he had lost her. If she was siding with his father, he had lost her.

And with just as many words, his stomach curls into a ball, and he feels like he might just vomit.

'He told me you would never be the son I wanted.'

He stands up quickly, holds a hand to his forehead to try and keep the nausea at bay. He can't look at her, and he turns away quickly. The bathroom is behind him and he steps into it, and he is retching, the small amount of food in his stomach coming up quickly and with acid.

No one comes after him. There is no supporting hand on his back. He coughs, and retches and tries to pretend the vomit is his anger, that he could push it all into the toilet bowl.

* * *

_There is a perceptible difference in the world from what you want it to be and what it is.  
__You wish in me  
__a son of whom you can be proud  
__like your other.  
__That I am not._

There is nothing in life better than poetry, he muses as he sits his pen down. He can feel the relief in his gut, that the words are out on paper not, not curling around his memories and movements. It is still there, he knows. Nothing disappears as easily as happiness, and nothing lingers so long as anger.

But as he reads over the words he has written again, admires his choice of words and phrases, he can pretend it is not him that is angry, but someone else, someone outside him.

His schoolbooks are on the top shelf. It feels like forever since he worked seriously on his schoolwork, but he's run out of rosin for his violin, so he pulls down the textbooks, sheets of paper and a notebook. He's not behind, though his head start has become shorter and shorter the past few months. He can't quite remember the text he was working on before, a set of Blake poems, and he slides them out of his notebook, scans over the lines again. He has to go through it twice before he feels the rhythm of the words again, the lilt and warmth of it.

He puts pen to paper, and starts to write. He bites his tongue and buries his mind in work and thought and doesn't think about anything else.

* * *

_There is a perceptible difference in what I wish to believe.  
__The goodness  
__that used to fill me  
__that which you ripped away with your cold hands.  
__I gained that back.  
__Don't you dare to take it again._


	15. Give Me My Sanity

**Give Me My Sanity**

_I long for the smells of the city.  
__I long to have them fill my nose  
__and burn._

Blaine doesn't realise the time has gone. It slips away from him like quick breaths, shallow and barely noticeable. Los Angeles is hurried, every man and woman in a rush to reach their destination, and he has never felt the urge to explore like he once did in New York. But every day still slips past him, and the school year is almost done before he notices. He is numb, he knows it. He spends each day as he used to: a cocktail of music, poetry, schoolwork, which burns in his throat, but does nothing but dull the rest of the pain.

His high school diploma is sent through the mail and there is no ceremony. He shows it to his mother without a word.

College applications are less easy, though he has more time than most. His accelerated schoolwork lets him finish the term months before the school year officially ends. But still he tosses and turns on his decisions, cannot chose. His mother suggests a school nearby, UCLA or University of San Francisco. He considers them, as he considers all the others, but there is no spark there, no yearning. He keeps a list tacked to the wall above his desk, but makes no decisions.

Perhaps he had known all along where he wanted to go. There was really no consideration, once the names were mentioned. He chose not to tell his mother, completed the essays and applications while she was at work each day, and sent them off without her knowledge.

Columbia, Manhattan School of Music, NYU.

When he listed his applications, not one of them varied from the city of New York.

He doesn't let himself think about it, think about what being in New York would mean. He lets himself write the applications and send them, and does not ponder. Pondering would lead to doubts and he could not let himself doubt.

He sends away the letters and makes music and poetry until acceptance letters arrive.

* * *

_I long for the vitality of the air.  
__There is a brilliance in the atmosphere  
__which this echo of a city does not accomplish._

He gets into NYU. His acceptance letter is accompanied with a note, one which appears hand written, but on closer inspection, has been printed; a stock standard 'personalised' note. _We are excited to have you at our campus!_

His mother is angry. He had expected her to be, was waiting for the yelling and the slamming of doors, but although she is angry, she does not argue.

'What's done is done,' she whispers softly, though Blaine can hear the disappointment. He has never wanted to be the disappointing child. He had always been so with his father, but after his death, he had hoped perhaps that it would become better, that his mother would be able to show her love for him now.

But she is a strong woman, Blaine's mother. She hides her pain, deep behind layers of make up and too bright smiles. She buries herself in her work, as she always has, and Blaine's failures are no concern. His successes are no concern either.

He applies for accommodation at the university, receives a place. This acceptance letter is in the form of an email, much less fancy, but with a happy tone. _We are pleased to welcome you to the residential life of NYU!_

He slips all his documents into a manila folder, places it at the bottom of his suitcase and waits, until the semester is about to start, and he can get out of here.

He had expected that perhaps she would cry, when he left. He was her last child, and he was growing up. She had cried when Cooper left them, running off to first LA, then New York as the jobs moved, as he searched for the roles he wanted in the illustrious career of actor.

But she does not cry, not for Blaine. She remains as stony as ever as he packs his bags for New York City. She is not happy, he can tell. But she hasn't been happy for a long time. Nothing much has changed.

* * *

_I long for a return to my sanity.  
__A freedom which has not been given to me  
__this past three months._


	16. Sense Memory

**Sense Memory**

_I remember._

The paper is smooth against his palm but the edges of the ticket dig into his knuckles and he shifts his grip slightly, positions it instead between his fingers to pass it through the scanner. He wants to get it smooth, practised like the men in line in front of him with their polished briefcases and stern expressions, but the ticket catches, he can't make the movement smooth. A second swipe and it recognises the barcode and at the same time as he enters the platform he turns to apologise to the woman behind him.

'Sorry, sorry.'

His bag feels awkward and heavy on his shoulder, nowhere near enough clothes to sustain a lifestyle, but a lifestyle involves school and a job and those things are still to come too. More clothes can wait.

He shuffles his belongings and his limbs to slip through the door and onto the carriage, locates his seat with very little difficulty. There's a girl there, with her hands neatly folded on her lap and headphones snug against her head. She doesn't move, not even the smallest bit, not even a tiny bop to the music. She looks straight ahead, lips pressed together, and appears to do nothing more than listen. He sits down opposite her, tries to catch her eye, and she winks, the first movement he's seen. He grins and leans back into his seat.

It's half an hour later when he falls asleep leaning against the window of the train and teeth rattling with each quick passing wooden sleeper.

Headphones girl gets off with Blaine at Chicago, but she doesn't catch the same connecting. Instead, she dissipates into the crowd immediately, just another face he's never going to see again. He shuffles his bag on his shoulder, tries not to get lost and follows the signs that lead him to the main level of the station. It's an hour 'til the train to LA departs, but he's too tired to try to leave the station, wander the city. Instead, he finds a storefront that's selling bagels, buys himself dinner and finds a corner of the station in which he can lean against the wall and sleep.

Despite the bag at his feet and the quality of his clothes, passers by don't fail to give him a stern look.

The connecting train is slightly larger and more roomy, or perhaps it's just the fact that there are less people. No one sits opposite him and he raises his feet, hooks them on the chair and leans back to fall asleep again.

* * *

_Touch. Taste. Feel.  
__I remember._

The city is alive around him, thrumming with the energy of it. He feels more alive than he's felt in months, like this is where he belongs, like he's _home. _He's not going back to the hotel apartment that he'd called home for a good six months of his life, and he doesn't want to. But this city speaks to him in a way that LA never did, and he breathes it in.

He shifts his bag on his shoulder, catches the eye of a busker on the corner who raises his eyebrows. 'Got any change, kid?'

Blaine shakes his head, shrugs his shoulders. 'If you're here next week, hopefully I'll have found a job and got paid, and I'll bring something for you.' He doesn't know the man, has never met him in his life, but he's the first person in New York to have met his eye this time around, and he feels like that deserves something.

The man laughs, strums a chord and begins to sing, not a song that Blaine is familiar with, but instead something that he appears to have made up on the spot.

_'I have a girl back home with bright big eyes. I'll use your money to support the cause of love.'_

Blaine grins and gives him a wave before moving off down the street. He doesn't look at the street signs, instead walks by memory, and he knows where the student facilities at NYU are, where he needs to be to begin this adventure.

He feels like he should be following his own footsteps, picking his way out instead to Kurt's dorm, knocking on his door and judging his reaction. But he doesn't need the boy he knew three months ago, before it was all ripped from him. He can live without it, and so he doesn't do more than briefly consider it, pushing the thought aside. Finding Kurt would do nothing more than make him feel angry and upset.

There's a woman behind the desk at student facilities, with hair pinned back into a sharp bun, but her smile is warm and she greets Blaine with a bright hello. 'Are you here to apply for one of our courses? Our early admission starts in two weeks and we're still assessing last minute applications.'

He returns her smile, hefts his bag up onto his shoulder. 'Actually, I've already been accepted. Blaine Anderson? I was just looking for information about my dorm and enrolment forms.'

She taps his name into her computer, finds his entry. 'Right, from LA?'

'My mom's in LA, yeah. I'm a bit of a wanderer myself. I think I want to call New York home.'

She pushes back a loose strand of hair and tucks it behind her ear. 'It's a great city.'

'I know.'

Turning her chair to face away from him, she begins pulling forms off the wall, paper of all different colours and packages of all different thicknesses.

'So you've chosen a major in English Literature, right?'

'Yeah.'

'Well, here's your course selection form. There's a link at the top of the page to the correct part of our website, which will lay out all the options for you, what's required for assessment and who the head of staff are. Hopefully you'll love it here at NYU.'

Blaine readjusts his bag on his shoulder and grabs the papers, tucking them under his free arm. 'Thanks.'

'Don't be a stranger,' she says and he takes that as his sign to leave.

His dorm is in U-Hall and he doesn't have far to go if he takes the bus, but instead he feels like walking. He lets the pavement pass by beneath his feet, burn into the rubber soles of his sneakers and into the balls of his feet. He passes places that seem mildly familiar to him, something he's managed to pass at some point, but he doesn't think about that. He doesn't think about much at all. He lets the wind bite at the skin of his face and focuses on the feeling, on his whole body and it's position in this city. And the most overriding thought is that he's missed it. That he's glad to be home.

He locates his room without much difficulty once he's in the building. The key that the staff on the first floor had given him slides easily into the lock and as soon as he's in he places his bag on the empty bed. The other one is already filled with books and clothing, the start of an unpack, but Blaine just sets down his bag, draws his laptop from the top pocket and grabs his forms. He scrawls a quick note on a corner of one of the sheets, rips it off and places it on the desk.

_Hi, my name's Blaine. I'll be back in an hour._

And then he heads out the door, making his way out onto the street and into the first cafe with wifi that he finds.

* * *

_Sight. Sense. Smell.  
__I remember._

He doesn't choose a table near the door, and instead battles his way between the too crowded seats and to the booths at the back. His laptop goes first, down on the table and then his papers. The waitress is already at his table when he looks up.

'Order?' Her hair is tied back in a high pony tail and her eyes are ringed with dark kohl but she's got the hint of a smile around her mouth and Blaine instantly likes her.

'Medium drip, thanks. And cake of the day.'

'We have-' she begins, but he shakes his head.

'Whatever is best.'

'Okay.'

She turns away and is still scribbling on her pad when Blaine looks down and starts writing, filling out first his name, then his student ID number which he takes off another sheet of paper. There's page after page of forms to complete, but he does each one in turn, signs waivers and agreements that he'll abide by the college rules, the dorm rules. It's not until he reaches the bottom of the stack that he finds the page that details his course selection. He clicks on to his laptop, types in the web page.

_Core Courses: Literary Interpretation, British Literature I, British Literature II, American Literature I._

He looks at the blank gaps he has to fill, the four core courses sitting above that. He writes the units codes in with small script and signs the base of the form.

'Not so difficult,' he breathes to himself.

And then he has nothing more to do. He can see the barista from where he's sitting, and his line of orders tacked to the top of the machine is long. The waitress is placing something on a plate and it might be his, but he wouldn't know until it got to him.

So instead, he turns his eyes to the patrons, to the old man leaning against the window, coat wrapped tight around his shoulders. There's a woman opposite him, sipping at a cappuccino and watching as he snores loudly. His wife maybe?

Closer to the counter a young girl is swinging her feet and eating a cupcake, completely unaware of her father, who is trying to get her attention.

Blaine's eyes wander further, across the cafe and around the many faces, the many people that are going about their day. He doesn't know where they've come from, the girl's parents could be divorced and very bitter, the boy just walking through the door could have just broken up with his needy girlfriend and the barista could be sleeping around behind his fiancés back. And Blaine would never know.

The waitress is coming towards him, bringing a cake that looks like berry and white chocolate cheesecake and he almost smiles to himself, but then she's turning left, away from his booth and to the one next to him and he looks across, following the line of the cake until his gaze falls upon the man who owns the table, his blue eyes trained to the notebook on his table as he writes.

Blaine can't see his eyes.

'Kurt?'

There's a pause, an endless impossible pause that seems to last minutes though Blaine knows they span only seconds. And then Kurt's eyes are snapping up, catching on him.

'Oh God. Blaine?' His mouth is falling open, and the waitress is staring between them but Blaine doesn't even notice, instead spends every firing nerve in determining what that expression on Kurt's face means, the tilt of his lips, the raise of his eyebrows. Then, 'Blaine!'

* * *

_Seeing you across the cafe,  
__I remember._


	17. My Fingers, They Have Travelled Here

**My Fingers, They Have Travelled Here Before**

_there is an awareness in my blood of the way your blood beats also  
__in this room  
__in this moment  
__the burning in my lungs and the smother of your body  
__against my chest  
__skin in contact with skin  
__burning red hot and impossible  
__and my fingers trace the lines of your skin_

The bed creaks softly as Blaine pulls Kurt down on top of him, arms tight around his neck, pulling, yearning, needing. Kurt's hands are at his hips, pushing at the soft material of his t-shirt and revealing Blaine's skin, still too pale for his own liking, but Kurt's lips are there and they're not moving except to trail up the smooth expanse of flesh.

Blaine hands tangle themselves into Kurt's hair, twisting and tugging softly and he can't stop moving, wriggling beneath Kurt's touch. The smile on his lips is infectious, and Kurt glances up, catching his eye. It's a quick soft press of lips against lips then, a little bit more gentle and then his hands are pulling Blaine's shirt completely over his head. His own soon follows and Blaine leans into him, craving that contact of skin and he hasn't felt like this since his mother dragged him away to LA, since his father died and his ability to smile at the world along with it. He can't stop holding onto him, can't stop kissing Kurt's skin and his lips and the soft spot behind his earlobe.

Kurt's eyes had glowed, in that cafe, with a light that Blaine had not seen since before he left New York. He can remember seeing that own glow, reflected in the mirror, but that was a long time ago, and even now, that he is here, and the lifeblood of the city is thrumming through his veins, he has not seen that glow since.

But it had been there, vibrant and bright and it had not left, even as Kurt held out his hand, told Blaine to take it. Not even as they walked out of the cafe, down the street, their hands not parting for a second. Not even as Kurt turned his head to catch his eye, smile, and whisper, 'I've missed you.' Not even as Blaine hummed a reply, licked his lips. 'I've missed you too.'

There was a depth to those blue eyes that caught Blaine's and wouldn't let him look away. He remembers feeling like this, and it is like a dream, but he is living that dream again. He can feel the anger, that old, raw anger that had overtaken him, so long ago, and more recent, the flood of empty nothingness.

This is not emptiness, not what he is feeling now. This is energy and longing and vitality, and also something more and something different but he cannot place it. It is different to the old feelings, and it means something more, he's sure.

Kurt had asked him about colleges, where he was enrolled, what he was studying, responding with a light, 'Of course.' He had asked about where he was staying, and when Blaine told him about the dorm, Kurt had whispered, 'Come back to mine?'

And Blaine did not know how he could possibly refuse.

Kurt's hands are guiding, shift him up and towards the pillow and the bed is fully open to them now, not just an obscure piece of furniture supporting Blaine's weight. It's there, and Blaine's head is on the pillow and Kurt is leaning over him and he's on Kurt's bed. He watches with wide eyes as a strand of hair is brushed from his face, gentle and soft and then he's leaning upwards, capturing Kurt's lips with his own. He can't stop, he can't, he _needs _this. He needs to feel and want and have this man here who knows him better than anyone else.

He grabs his shoulders, wraps his arms tight around his neck and their separated by nothing but their own skin and pants, and Blaine's hands slip down, lower, lower across the curve of Kurt's back. The tiny dimples just above the waistline of his jeans give under Blaine's touch and he grins beneath Kurt's lips. He's been here before, tracing this skin, and just as last time, he can hardly breathe with the thought of it, deep gulping breaths that lift his chest, press it closer to Kurt's.

His heart is beating harder, thump thump thump and then suddenly, he's gasping, 'No,' and Kurt's moving away, every part of him, not a single connection that Blaine needs like the blood in his veins.

'Oh.'

'No no no,' he says quickly and he reaches out, hands smoothing over shoulders, into his hair, but it's too far away, too much cold air between them.

'Why then?' Kurt's face is impassive, nothing like the last time and Blaine bites his lip, tips his head back to face the ceiling.

'I can't.'

'You were the one that wanted this, Blaine.'

He knows that, he knows, and his body is alive all over, but he's been in New York three days, and they've only ever done this once and it didn't end out too well then either, and he just needs _time. _God, he needs time. He's barely eighteen for god's sake.

'I know.'

'I don't understand.'

Blaine moves forward, sitting himself down properly on the edge of the bed and Kurt is still standing there, jeans slung low on his hips and his mouth is turned down in a frown.

'I don't think I'm ready.'

'Will you ever be ready?'

He breathes in, sighs. 'Yes. I wish I could be ready now. But I haven't showered since before I left LA, and we've seen each other again for less than two hours, and we never managed this the first time round anyway.' His eyes have fallen, but he lifts them again. 'We never even sorted out what we were.'

Kurt smiles then, and it's like a whole change has come across his face. He steps closer and he's standing between Blaine legs and his hands capture his cheeks. He kisses his forehead softly. 'What we are, Blaine,' he corrects.

'What we are.'

He leans in then, and kisses him properly on the lips, Blaine's arms sliding round Kurt's back and holding him close. He needs him close, so close.

'I've missed you,' he whispers into the skin of his chest.

'I've missed you more.'

'Give me a week, I'll be ready by then.'

Kurt laughs, small and gentle and then he lifts Blaine's head with a finger beneath his chin. 'You get to take as long as you need, okay?' He smiles. 'I don't think I'm ready either.'

And nobody has to clarify what they mean by _ready. _Whether it's for the contact of skin, the intimacy, the sex. They just lean into each other like they need it, like they need it more than they need anything else.

'Stay with me?' Kurt asks, voice as soft and quiet as silk.

'I don't think I could leave right now.'

He smiles. 'Good.' His hands rest lightly on Blaine's shoulders and he pushes him gently onto the bed, turns him to his side before climbing in next to him. And the bed becomes a bed once more, and Kurt's feet tangle between Blaine's ankles, and their fingers intertwine. Kurt presses his nose into Blaine's shoulder, breathes in his scent and gives a small breathy laugh. 'I'm glad you're here, Blaine.'

'I'm glad I'm here, too.'

'Don't go again.'

'I won't.'

He clings to his hand like a life line and fights sleep until Kurt's breathing has settled into an even rhythm. Then he lets himself fall under, next to the person he loves.

* * *

_don't move too fast  
__my beating heart will not manage to keep up  
__and my head will spin and the room will move  
__and I will not be able to ground myself to reality  
__like I wish for  
__like you wish for  
__like we know_


	18. The Implications Of A History

**The Implications of A History**

_We have history, you and I.  
__I have stood in this doorway before,  
__told you goodbye with the knowledge that we would meet again,  
__and once with the belief that we would not._

The bed is warm and Blaine rolls over into the empty pillow that was not empty fifteen minutes before. His skin settles into the mold of many years of use but it's not his pillow and when his eyes open, he sees the unfamiliar ceiling, smells the bergamot of tea brewing on the stove, and he rolls back onto his side of the too small bed. His bedmate is not here, has moved from the position of comfort and warmth that Blaine had enjoyed throughout the night, but his eyes fall upon the light filtering out beneath the en suite door and he smiles.

This is where he wants to be. He knows it like the pores of his body are made from it, like every cell is screaming out just to let him know. He wants to be here, waking up in Kurt's bed, and hearing him singing in the shower every morning, and sharing cups of earl grey tea. He wants to fall asleep here, arms and legs tangled together and it's not about sex, it's about intimacy. He just wants to be near him, for as long as he possibly can.

The door opens to the bathroom and Kurt slips out, towel wrapped tight around his waist but chest bare and his hair is hanging wet around his ears. 'Morning,' he smiles. 'I made tea.'

'I can tell. It smells good.'

Kurt's lips quirk up. 'So do I, now that all the sweat and gross from yesterday are gone.'

A laugh escapes from Blaine's lips. 'God, that must mean I need a shower, _so badly. _I don't think I've showered since I left LA.'

'Have you really been that lazy?'

He smiles, slow and languidly. 'Yeah. I didn't see the point.'

'Well, up you get!' The grin is wide on Kurt's face. 'I'm not eating breakfast with you until you're nice and clean, Mr Anderson.'

He gets up grudgingly, frowning, but it's a carefree frown, a smile cornering the edges despite it.

He slides into the shower at Kurt's insistence, and when he gets back out, the other man is fully dressed, handing him a slice of toast and a cup of tea.

'Thanks,' he whispers.

'No worries.'

He purses his lips, takes a sip of the warm drink.

'I'm glad you're here, Blaine.'

He smiles around his cup. 'Me, too.'

And he doesn't want to leave, he knows that now. He wants to stay here for the rest of his life, waking up with Kurt, eating breakfast with Kurt. And he knows its not possible right now, that he's got his own dorm room to get back to, but it _should _be that easy.

'Will you come round tonight after class?'

'When do you finish?'

He smiles. 'Two.'

'I'll be there at one thirty, waiting.'

'I can't wait.'

When his tea and toast is finished, he rinses his cup in the sink, places it on the drainer. 'I'm gonna miss you 'til then.'

Kurt smiles. 'I know.'

At the door, he doesn't want to look away. He lingers, hand on the doorframe, and Kurt leans closer, kisses him gently on the lips. 'See you this afternoon, Blaine.'

He doesn't say _I love you. _It seems too intense to say right now. But he smiles and nods, and walks backwards all the way down the corridor. When he's at the elevator, moving downstairs, he mouths it to himself.

_I love you Kurt Hummel._

* * *

_We have history, you and I.  
__And I ache with the memory of it.  
__Take my hand, place it against your chest  
__and tell me you love me._


	19. For A Stranger Who Took My Heart

**For A Stranger Who Took My Heart**

_This book is for a stranger who took my heart.  
__I dedicate it to you, my love,  
__and give it to you along with everything you deserve.  
__I tie it up with cord and place it in your hands.  
__I give it to your heart, and please,  
__keep it safe._

The desk at his dorm room isn't like the old one in the hotel apartment, or the hotel apartment before that, but he's put his things in the same positions, his notebook pride of place, his pen just to the right and his lamp leaning over it all, to illuminating his writing.

He scrawls in tight script, slightly looser now than it used to be if he flicks through the pages, but his handwriting has always been small and cramped. It's the last page in this notebook, and it's not going to fill itself, but he writes out the lines and when the words that have been spiralling around in his brain are placed down onto the page, he closes it. He twines the leather strap around the book, ties it tight and leans back. It's not right yet.

There's a box beneath his bed, from where he unpacked his CDs and he draws it out, placing the book within it. He shuts it up, uses the craft tape on his desk to close it, then, in his tight handwriting, he scrawls out,

_For A Stranger Who Took My Heart._

He watches as the pen seeps into the cardboard, drying and settling, and then he lifts up the box. The weight in his arms is comforting.

'This is for you,' he says as he steps through the door.

* * *

**Oh my god, thank you so much for everyone who's already left love on this story! I'm so glad you're all enjoying it and now it's done! This story is one of my favourite pieces, it was bittersweet to write, and sometimes absolutely agonising, but I think it really achieved something I've never managed to do before, in emotion and sentiment, but in the form of a long piece. Thank you for being here for me and this story!**

**And now that this is done, I'm gonna get working on some other projects! :D**


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